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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Book of Old Ballads, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Book of Old Ballads
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Beverly Nichols
+
+Release Date: May 15, 2003 [EBook #7535]
+[Most recently updated: March 24, 2023]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury, Charles Franks
+and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+A BOOK OF OLD BALLADS
+
+
+Selected and with an Introduction
+
+by
+
+BEVERLEY NICHOLS
+
+
+
+
+ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
+
+The thanks and acknowledgments of the publishers are due to the
+following: to Messrs. B. Feldman & Co., 125 Shaftesbury Avenue, W.C. 2,
+for "It's a Long Way to Tipperary"; to Mr. Rudyard Kipling and Messrs.
+Methuen & Co. for "Mandalay" from _Barrack Room Ballads_; and to
+the Executors of the late Oscar Wilde for "The Ballad of Reading Gaol."
+
+"The Earl of Mar's Daughter", "The Wife of Usher's Well", "The Three
+Ravens", "Thomas the Rhymer", "Clerk Colvill", "Young Beichen", "May
+Collin", and "Hynd Horn" have been reprinted from _English and
+Scottish Ballads_, edited by Mr. G. L. Kittredge and the late Mr. F.
+J. Child, and published by the Houghton Mifflin Company.
+
+The remainder of the ballads in this book, with the exception of "John
+Brown's Body", are from _Percy's Reliques_, Volumes I and II.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+FOREWORD
+MANDALAY
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+KING ESTMERE
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+MAY COLLIN
+THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+CLERK COLVILL
+SIR ALDINGAR
+EDOM O' GORDON
+CHEVY CHACE
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+GIL MORRICE
+THE CHILD OF ELLE
+CHILD WATERS
+KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+EDWARD, EDWARD
+KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+HYND HORN
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+TIPPERARY
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+THE THREE RAVENS
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+THE LYE
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+
+_The source of these ballads will be found in the Appendix at the end
+of this book._
+
+
+
+
+LIST OF COLOUR PLATES
+
+
+HYND HORN
+KING ESTMERE
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+MAY COLLIN
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+CLERK COLVILL
+GIL MORRICE
+CHILD WATERS
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+THE THREE RAVENS
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+
+
+
+
+FOREWORD
+
+By
+
+Beverley Nichols
+
+
+These poems are the very essence of the British spirit. They are, to
+literature, what the bloom of the heather is to the Scot, and the
+smell of the sea to the Englishman. All that is beautiful in the old
+word "patriotism" ... a word which, of late, has been twisted to such
+ignoble purposes ... is latent in these gay and full-blooded measures.
+
+But it is not only for these reasons that they are so valuable to the
+modern spirit. It is rather for their tonic qualities that they should
+be prescribed in 1934. The post-war vintage of poetry is the thinnest
+and the most watery that England has ever produced. But here, in these
+ballads, are great draughts of poetry which have lost none of their
+sparkle and none of their bouquet.
+
+It is worth while asking ourselves why this should be--why these poems
+should "keep", apparently for ever, when the average modern poem turns
+sour overnight. And though all generalizations are dangerous I believe
+there is one which explains our problem, a very simple one.... namely,
+that the eyes of the old ballad-singers were turned outwards, while the
+eyes of the modern lyric-writer are turned inwards.
+
+The authors of the old ballads wrote when the world was young, and
+infinitely exciting, when nobody knew what mystery might not lie on the
+other side of the hill, when the moon was a golden lamp, lit by a
+personal God, when giants and monsters stalked, without the slightest
+doubt, in the valleys over the river. In such a world, what could a man
+do but stare about him, with bright eyes, searching the horizon, while
+his heart beat fast in the rhythm of a song?
+
+But now--the mysteries have gone. We know, all too well, what lies on
+the other side of the hill. The scientists have long ago puffed out,
+scornfully, the golden lamp of the night ... leaving us in the uttermost
+darkness. The giants and the monsters have either skulked away or have
+been tamed, and are engaged in writing their memoirs for the popular
+press. And so, in a world where everything is known (and nothing
+understood), the modern lyric-writer wearily averts his eyes, and stares
+into his own heart.
+
+That way madness lies. All madmen are ferocious egotists, and so are all
+modern lyric-writers. That is the first and most vital difference
+between these ballads and their modern counterparts. The old
+ballad-singers hardly ever used the first person singular. The modern
+lyric-writer hardly ever uses anything else.
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+
+
+
+This is really such an important point that it is worth labouring.
+
+Why is ballad-making a lost art? That it _is_ a lost art there can
+be no question. Nobody who is painfully acquainted with the rambling,
+egotistical pieces of dreary versification, passing for modern
+"ballads", will deny it.
+
+Ballad-making is a lost art for a very simple reason. Which is, that we
+are all, nowadays, too sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought to
+receive emotions directly, without self-consciousness. If we are
+wounded, we are no longer able to sing a song about a clean sword, and a
+great cause, and a black enemy, and a waving flag. No--we must needs go
+into long descriptions of our pain, and abstruse calculations about its
+effect upon our souls.
+
+It is not "we" who have changed. It is life that has changed. "We" are
+still men, with the same legs, arms and eyes as our ancestors. But life
+has so twisted things that there are no longer any clean swords nor
+great causes, nor black enemies. And the flags do not know which way to
+flutter, so contrary are the winds of the modern world. All is doubt.
+And doubt's colour is grey.
+
+Grey is no colour for a ballad. Ballads are woven from stuff of
+primitive hue ... the red blood gushing, the gold sun shining, the green
+grass growing, the white snow falling. Never will you find grey in a
+ballad. You will find the black of the night and the raven's wing,
+and the silver of a thousand stars. You will find the blue of many
+summer skies. But you will not find grey.
+
+
+III
+
+
+That is why ballad-making is a lost art. Or almost a lost art. For even
+in this odd and musty world of phantoms which we call the twentieth
+century, there are times when a man finds himself in a certain place at
+a certain hour and something happens to him which takes him out of
+himself. And a song is born, simply and sweetly, a song which other
+men can sing, for all time, and forget themselves.
+
+Such a song was once written by a master at my old school, Marlborough.
+He was a Scot. But he loved Marlborough with the sort of love which the
+old ballad-mongers must have had-the sort of love which takes a man on
+wings, far from his foolish little body.
+
+He wrote a song called "The Scotch Marlburian".
+
+Here it is:--
+
+  Oh Marlborough, she's a toun o' touns
+  We will say that and mair,
+  We that ha' walked alang her douns
+  And snuffed her Wiltshire air.
+  A weary way ye'll hae to tramp
+  Afore ye match the green
+  O' Savernake and Barbery Camp
+  And a' that lies atween!
+
+The infinite beauty of that phrase ... "and a' that lies atween"! The
+infinite beauty as it is roared by seven hundred young throats in
+unison! For in that phrase there drifts a whole pageant of boyhood--the
+sound of cheers as a race is run on a stormy day in March, the tolling
+of the Chapel bell, the crack of ball against bat, the sighs of sleep
+in a long white dormitory.
+
+But you may say "What is all this to me? I wasn't at Maryborough. I
+don't like schoolboys ... they strike me as dirty, noisy, and usually
+foul-minded. Why should I go into raptures about such a song, which
+seems only to express a highly debatable approval of a certain method of
+education?"
+
+If you are asking yourself that sort of question, you are obviously in
+very grave need of the tonic properties of this book. For after you have
+read it, you will wonder why you ever asked it.
+
+
+IV
+
+I go back and back to the same point, at the risk of boring you to
+distraction. For it is a point which has much more "to" it than the
+average modern will care to admit, unless he is forced to do so.
+
+You remember the generalization about the eyes ... how they used to look
+_out_, but now look _in_? Well, listen to this....
+
+  _I'm_ feeling blue,
+  _I_ don't know what to do,
+  'Cos _I_ love you
+  And you don't love _me_.
+
+The above masterpiece is, as far as I am aware, imaginary. But it
+represents a sort of _reductio ad absurdum_ of thousands of lyrics
+which have been echoing over the post-war world. Nearly all these lyrics
+are melancholy, with the profound and primitive melancholy of the negro
+swamp, and they are all violently egotistical.
+
+Now this, in the long run, is an influence of far greater evil than one
+would be inclined at first to admit. If countless young men, every
+night, are to clasp countless young women to their bosoms, and rotate
+over countless dancing-floors, muttering "I'm feeling blue ... _I_
+don't know what to do", it is not unreasonable to suppose that they will
+subconsciously apply some of the lyric's mournful egotism to themselves.
+
+Anybody who has even a nodding acquaintance with modern psychological
+science will be aware of the significance of "conditioning", as applied
+to the human temperament. The late M. Coué "conditioned" people into
+happiness by making them repeat, over and over again, the phrase "Every
+day in every way I grow better and better and better."
+
+The modern lyric-monger exactly reverses M. Coué's doctrine. He makes
+the patient repeat "Every night, with all my might, I grow worse and
+worse and worse." Of course the "I" of the lyric-writer is an imaginary
+"I", but if any man sings "_I'm_ feeling blue", often enough, to a
+catchy tune, he will be a superman if he does not eventually apply that
+"I" to himself.
+
+But the "blueness" is really beside the point. It is the _egotism_
+of the modern ballad which is the trouble. Even when, as they
+occasionally do, the modern lyric-writers discover, to their
+astonishment, that they are feeling happy, they make the happiness such
+a personal issue that half its tonic value is destroyed. It is not, like
+the old ballads, just an outburst of delight, a sudden rapture at the
+warmth of the sun, or the song of the birds, or the glint of moonlight
+on a sword, or the dew in a woman's eyes. It is not an emotion so sweet
+and soaring that self is left behind, like a dull chrysalis, while the
+butterfly of the spirit flutters free. No ... the chrysalis is never
+left behind, the "I", "I", "I", continues, in a maddening monotone. And
+we get this sort of thing....
+
+  _I_ want to be happy,
+  But _I_ can't be happy
+  Till _I've_ made you happy too.
+
+And that, if you please, is one of the jolliest lyrics of the last
+decade! That was a song which made us all smile and set all our feet
+dancing!
+
+Even when their tale was woven out of the stuff of tragedy, the old
+ballads were not tarnished with such morbid speculations. Read the tale
+of the beggar's daughter of Bethnal Green. One shudders to think what a
+modern lyric-writer would make of it. We should all be in tears before
+the end of the first chorus.
+
+But here, a lovely girl leaves her blind father to search for fortune.
+She has many adventures, and in the end, she marries a knight. The
+ballad ends with words of almost childish simplicity, but they are words
+which ring with the true tone of happiness:--
+
+  Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte
+  A bridegroome most happy then was the young knighte
+  In joy and felicitie long lived hee
+  All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.
+
+I said that the words were of almost childish simplicity. But the
+student of language, and the would-be writer, might do worse than study
+those words, if only to see how the cumulative effect of brightness and
+radiance is gained. You may think the words are artless, but just
+ponder, for a moment, the number of brilliant verbal symbols which are
+collected into that tiny verse. There are only four lines. But those
+lines contain these words ...
+
+Feast, joy, delight, bridegroom, happy, joy, young, felicity, fair,
+pretty.
+
+Is that quite so artless, after all? Is it not rather like an old and
+primitive plaque, where colour is piled on colour till you would say
+the very wood will burst into flame ... and yet, the total effect is one
+of happy simplicity?
+
+
+V
+
+
+How were the early ballads born? Who made them? One man or many? Were
+they written down, when they were still young, or was it only after the
+lapse of many generations, when their rhymes had been sharpened and
+their metres polished by constant repetition, that they were finally
+copied out?
+
+To answer these questions would be one of the most fascinating tasks
+which the detective in letters could set himself. Grimm, listening
+in his fairyland, heard some of the earliest ballads, loved them,
+pondered on them, and suddenly startled the world by announcing that
+most ballads were not the work of a single author, but of the people at
+large. _Das Volk dichtet_, he said. And that phrase got him into a
+lot of trouble. People told him to get back to his fairyland and not
+make such ridiculous suggestions. For how, they asked, could a whole
+people make a poem? You might as well tell a thousand men to make a
+tune, limiting each of them to one note!
+
+To invest Grimm's words with such an intention is quite unfair.
+[Footnote:  For a discussion of Grimm's theories, together with much
+interesting speculation on the origin of the ballads, the reader should
+study the admirable introduction to _English and Scottish Popular
+Ballads_, published by George Harrap & Co., Ltd.] Obviously a
+multitude of people could not, deliberately, make a single poem any more
+than a multitude of people could, deliberately, make a single picture,
+one man doing the nose, one man an eye and so on. Such a suggestion is
+grotesque, and Grimm never meant it. If I might guess at what he meant,
+I would suggest that he was thinking that the origin of ballads must
+have been similar to the origin of the dance, (which was probably the
+earliest form of aesthetic expression known to man).
+
+The dance was invented because it provided a means of prolonging ecstasy
+by art. It may have been an ecstasy of sex or an ecstasy of victory ...
+that doesn't matter. The point is that it gave to a group of people an
+ordered means of expressing their delight instead of just leaping about
+and making loud cries, like the animals. And you may be sure that as the
+primitive dance began, there was always some member of the tribe a
+little more agile than the rest--some man who kicked a little higher or
+wriggled his body in an amusing way. And the rest of them copied him,
+and incorporated his step into their own.
+
+Apply this analogy to the origin of ballads. It fits perfectly.
+
+There has been a successful raid, or a wedding, or some great deed of
+daring, or some other phenomenal thing, natural or supernatural. And now
+that this day, which will ever linger in their memories, is drawing to
+its close, the members of the tribe draw round the fire and begin to
+make merry. The wine passes ... and tongues are loosened. And someone
+says a phrase which has rhythm and a sparkle to it, and the phrase is
+caught up and goes round the fire, and is repeated from mouth to mouth.
+And then the local wit caps it with another phrase and a rhyme is born.
+For there is always a local wit in every community, however primitive.
+There is even a local wit in the monkey house at the zoo.
+
+And once you have that single rhyme and that little piece of rhythm, you
+have the genesis of the whole thing. It may not be worked out that
+night, nor even by the men who first made it. The fire may long have
+died before the ballad is completed, and tall trees may stand over the
+men and women who were the first to tell the tale. But rhyme and rhythm
+are indestructible, if they are based on reality. "Not marble nor the
+gilded monuments of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme."
+
+And so it is that some of the loveliest poems in the language will ever
+remain anonymous. Needless to say, _all_ the poems are not
+anonymous. As society became more civilized it was inevitable that the
+peculiar circumstances from which the earlier ballads sprang should
+become less frequent. Nevertheless, about nearly all of the ballads
+there is "a common touch", as though even the most self-conscious author
+had drunk deep of the well of tradition, that sparkling well in which so
+much beauty is distilled.
+
+
+VI
+
+
+But though the author or authors of most of the ballads may be lost in
+the lists of time, we know a good deal about the minstrels who sang
+them. And it is a happy thought that those minstrels were such
+considerable persons, so honourably treated, so generously esteemed.
+The modern mind, accustomed to think of the singer of popular songs
+either as a highly paid music-hall artist, at the top of the ladder, or
+a shivering street-singer, at the bottom of it, may find it difficult to
+conceive of a minstrel as a sort of ambassador of song, moving from
+court to court with dignity and ceremony.
+
+Yet this was actually the case. In the ballad of King Estmere, for
+example, we see the minstrel finely mounted, and accompanied by a
+harpist, who sings his songs for him. This minstrel, too, moves among
+kings without any ceremony. As Percy has pointed out, "The further we
+carry our enquiries back, the greater respect we find paid to the
+professors of poetry and music among all the Celtic and Gothic nations.
+Their character was deemed so sacred that under its sanction our famous
+King Alfred made no scruple to enter the Danish camp, and was at once
+admitted to the king's headquarters."
+
+_And even so late as the time of Froissart, we have minstrels and
+heralds mentioned together, as those who might securely go into an
+enemy's country._
+
+The reader will perhaps forgive me if I harp back, once more, to our
+present day and age, in view of the quite astonishing change in national
+psychology which that revelation implies. Minstrels and heralds were
+once allowed safe conduct into the enemy's country, in time of war. Yet,
+in the last war, it was considered right and proper to hiss the work of
+Beethoven off the stage, and responsible newspapers seriously suggested
+that never again should a note of German music, of however great
+antiquity, be heard in England! We are supposed to have progressed
+towards internationalism, nowadays. Whereas, in reality, we have grown
+more and more frenziedly national. We are very far behind the age of
+Froissart, when there was a true internationalism--the internationalism
+of art.
+
+To some of us that is still a very real internationalism. When we hear a
+Beethoven sonata we do not think of it as issuing from the brain of a
+"Teuton" but as blowing from the eternal heights of music whose winds
+list nothing of frontiers.
+
+Man _needs_ song, for he is a singing animal. Moreover, he needs
+communal song, for he is a social animal. The military authorities
+realized this very cleverly, and they encouraged the troops, during the
+war, to sing on every possible occasion. Crazy pacifists, like myself,
+may find it almost unbearably bitter to think that on each side of
+various frontiers young men were being trained to sing themselves to
+death, in a struggle which was hideously impersonal, a struggle of
+machinery, in which the only winners were the armament manufacturers.
+And crazy pacifists might draw a very sharp line indeed between the
+songs which celebrated real personal struggles in the tiny wars of the
+past, and the songs which were merely the prelude to thousands of
+puzzled young men suddenly finding themselves choking in chlorine gas,
+in the wars of the present.
+
+But even the craziest pacifist could not fail to be moved by some of the
+ballads of the last war. To me, "Tipperary" is still the most moving
+tune in the world. It happens to be a very good tune, from the
+musician's point of view, a tune that Handel would not have been ashamed
+to write, but that is not the point. Its emotional qualities are due to
+its associations. Perhaps that is how it has always been, with ballads.
+From the standard of pure aesthetics, one ought not to consider
+"associations" in judging a poem or a tune, but with a song like
+"Tipperary" you would be an inhuman prig if you didn't. We all have our
+"associations" with this particular tune. For me, it recalls a window in
+Hampstead, on a grey day in October 1914. I had been having the measles,
+and had not been allowed to go back to school. Then suddenly, down the
+street, that tune echoed. And they came marching, and marching, and
+marching. And they were all so happy.
+
+So happy.
+
+
+VII
+
+
+"Tipperary" is a true ballad, which is why it is included in this book.
+So is "John Brown's Body". They were not written as ballads but they
+have been promoted to that proud position by popular vote.
+
+It will now be clear, from the foregoing remarks, that there are
+thousands of poems, labelled "ballads" from the eighteenth century,
+through the romantic movement, and onwards, which are not ballads at
+all. Swinburne's ballads, which so shocked our grandparents, bore about
+as much relation to the true ballads as a vase of wax fruit to a
+hawker's barrow. They were lovely patterns of words, woven like some
+exquisite, foaming lace, but they were Swinburne, Swinburne all the
+time. They had nothing to do with the common people. The common people
+would not have understood a word of them.
+
+Ballads _must_ be popular. And that is why it will always remain
+one of the weirdest paradoxes of literature that the only man, except
+Kipling, who has written a true ballad in the last fifty years is the
+man who despised the people, who shrank from them, and jeered at them,
+from his little gilded niche in Piccadilly. I refer, of course, to Oscar
+Wilde's "Ballad of Reading Gaol." It was a true ballad, and it was the
+best thing he ever wrote. For it was written _de profundis_, when
+his hands were bloody with labour and his tortured spirit had been down
+to the level of the lowest, to the level of the pavement ... nay, lower
+... to the gutter itself. And in the gutter, with agony, he learned the
+meaning of song.
+
+Ballads begin and end with the people. You cannot escape that fact. And
+therefore, if I wished to collect the ballads of the future, the songs
+which will endure into the next century (if there _is_ any song in
+the next century), I should not rake through the contemporary poets, in
+the hope of finding gems of lasting brilliance. No. I should go to the
+music-halls. I should listen to the sort of thing they sing when the
+faded lady with the high bust steps forward and shouts, "Now then, boys,
+all together!"
+
+Unless you can write the words "Now then, boys, all together", at the
+top of a ballad, it is not really a ballad at all. That may sound a
+sweeping statement, but it is true.
+
+In the present-day music-halls, although they have fallen from their
+high estate, we should find a number of these songs which seem destined
+for immortality. One of these is "Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore."
+
+Do you remember it?
+
+  Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!
+  Mrs. Moore, oh don't 'ave any more!
+  Too many double gins
+  Give the ladies double chins,
+  So don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!
+
+The whole of English "low life" (which is much the most exciting part of
+English life) is in that lyric. It is as vivid as a Rowlandson cartoon.
+How well we know Mrs. Moore! How plainly we see her ... the amiable,
+coarse-mouthed, generous-hearted tippler, with her elbow on countless
+counters, her damp coppers clutched in her rough hands, her eyes
+staring, a little vacantly, about her. Some may think it is a sordid
+picture, but I am sure that they cannot know Mrs. Moore very well if
+they think that. They cannot know her bitter struggles, her silent
+heroisms, nor her sardonic humour.
+
+Lyrics such as these will, I believe, endure long after many of the most
+renowned and fashionable poets of to-day are forgotten. They all have
+the same quality, that they can be prefaced by that inspiring sentence,
+"Now then, boys--all together!" Or to put it another way, as in the
+ballad of George Barnwell,
+
+  All youths of fair England
+  That dwell both far and near,
+  Regard my story that I tell
+  And to my song give ear.
+
+That may sound more dignified, but it amounts to the same thing!
+
+
+VIII
+
+
+But if the generation to come will learn a great deal from the few
+popular ballads which we are still creating in our music-halls, how much
+more shall we learn of history from these ballads, which rang through
+the whole country, and were impregnated with the spirit of a whole
+people! These ballads _are_ history, and as such they should be
+recognised.
+
+It has always seemed to me that we teach history in the wrong way. We
+give boys the impression that it is an affair only of kings and queens
+and great statesmen, of generals and admirals, and such-like bores.
+Thousands of boys could probably draw you a map of many pettifogging
+little campaigns, with startling accuracy, but not one in a thousand
+could tell you what the private soldier carried in his knapsack. You
+could get sheaves of competent essays, from any school, dealing with
+such things as the Elizabethan ecclesiastical settlement, but how many
+boys could tell you, even vaguely, what an English home was like, what
+they ate, what coins were used, how their rooms were lit, and what they
+paid their servants?
+
+In other words, how many history masters ever take the trouble to sketch
+in the great background, the life of the common people? How many even
+realize their _existence_, except on occasions of national
+disaster, such as the Black Plague?
+
+A proper study of the ballads would go a long way towards remedying this
+defect. Thomas Percy, whose _Reliques_ must ever be the main source
+of our information on all questions connected with ballads, has pointed
+out that all the great events of the country have, sooner or later,
+found their way into the country's song-book. But it is not only the
+resounding names that are celebrated. In the ballads we hear the echoes
+of the street, the rude laughter and the pointed jests. Sometimes these
+ring so plainly that they need no explanation. At other times, we have
+to go to Percy or to some of his successors to realize the true
+significance of the song.
+
+For example, the famous ballad "John Anderson my Jo" seems, at first
+sight, to be innocent of any polemical intention. But it was written
+during the Reformation when, as Percy dryly observes, "the Muses were
+deeply engaged in religious controversy." The zeal of the Scottish
+reformers was at its height, and this zeal found vent in many a pasquil
+discharged at Popery. It caused them, indeed, in their frenzy, to
+compose songs which were grossly licentious, and to sing these songs in
+rasping voices to the tunes of some of the most popular hymns in the
+Latin Service.
+
+"John Anderson my Jo" was such a ballad composed for such an occasion.
+And Percy, who was more qualified than any other man to read between the
+lines, has pointed out that the first stanza contains a satirical
+allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy, while the second, which
+makes an apparently light reference to "seven bairns", is actually
+concerned with the seven sacraments, five of which were the spurious
+offspring of Mother Church.
+
+Thus it was in a thousand cases. The ballads, even the lightest and most
+blossoming of them, were deep-rooted in the soil of English history. How
+different from anything that we possess to-day! Great causes do not lead
+men to song, nowadays they lead them to write letters to the newspapers.
+A national thanksgiving cannot call forth a single rhyme or a single bar
+of music. Who can remember a solitary verse of thanksgiving, from any of
+our poets, in commemoration of any of the victories of the Great War?
+Who can recall even a fragment of verse in praise of the long-deferred
+coming of Peace?
+
+Very deeply significant is it that our only method of commemorating
+Armistice Day was by a two minutes silence. No song. No music. Nothing.
+The best thing we could do, we felt, was to keep quiet.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+MANDALAY
+
+
+  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
+  There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
+  For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
+  'Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!'
+  Come you back to Mandalay,
+  Where the old Flotilla lay:
+  Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
+  On the road to Mandalay,
+  Where the flyin'-fishes play,
+  An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
+
+  'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
+  An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
+  An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
+  An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
+      Bloomin' idol made o' mud--
+      Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--
+      Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
+  She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing _'Kulla-lo-lo!'_
+  With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek
+  We useter watch the steamers an' the _hathis_ pilin' teak.
+      Elephints a-pilin' teak
+      In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
+      Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away,
+  An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
+  An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
+  'If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught
+            else.'
+      No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
+      But them spicy garlic smells,
+      An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
+  An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
+  Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
+  An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
+      Beefy face an' grubby 'and--
+      Law! wot do they understand?
+      I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
+      On the road to Mandalay ...
+
+  Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
+  Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
+  For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be--
+  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
+         On the road to Mandalay,
+         Where the old Flotilla lay,
+         With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
+         O the road to Mandalay,
+         Where the flyin'-fishes play,
+         An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+
+or
+
+THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE
+
+
+  Now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court,
+  One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport:
+  But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest,
+  Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest:
+  A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground,
+  As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.
+
+  The Duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben,
+  Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then.
+  O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd
+  To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd:
+  Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose,
+  And they put him to bed for to take his repose.
+
+  Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt,
+  They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt:
+  On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,
+  They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown.
+  In the morning when day, then admiring he lay,
+  For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay.
+
+  Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state,
+  Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait;
+  And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare,
+  He desired to know what apparel he'd ware:
+  The poor tinker amaz'd on the gentleman gaz'd,
+  And admired how he to this honour was rais'd.
+
+  Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit,
+  Which he straitways put on without longer dispute;
+  With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd,
+  And it seem'd for to swell him "no" little with pride;
+  For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife?
+  Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.
+
+  From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace
+  Did observe his behaviour in every case.
+  To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait,
+  Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great:
+  Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view,
+  With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew.
+
+  A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests,
+  He was plac'd at the table above all the rest,
+  In a rich chair "or bed," lin'd with fine crimson red,
+  With a rich golden canopy over his head:
+  As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet,
+  With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.
+
+  While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine,
+  Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine.
+  Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl,
+  Till at last he began for to tumble and roul
+  From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,
+  Being seven times drunker than ever before.
+
+  Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain,
+  And restore him his old leather garments again:
+  'T was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must,
+  And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first;
+  There he slept all the night, as indeed well he might;
+  But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.
+
+  For his glory "to him" so pleasant did seem,
+  That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream;
+  Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought
+  For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought;
+  But his highness he said, Thou 'rt a jolly bold blade,
+  Such a frolick before I think never was plaid.
+
+  Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak,
+  Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak;
+  Nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground,
+  Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round,
+  Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend,
+  Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend.
+
+  Then the tinker reply'd, What! must Joan my sweet bride
+  Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride?
+  Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command?
+  Then I shall be a squire I well understand:
+  Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace,
+  I was never before in so happy a case.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+THE KNIGHT & SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+
+
+  There was a shepherd's daughter
+    Came tripping on the waye;
+  And there by chance a knighte shee mett,
+    Which caused her to staye.
+
+  Good morrowe to you, beauteous maide,
+    These words pronounced hee:
+  O I shall dye this daye, he sayd,
+    If Ive not my wille of thee.
+
+  The Lord forbid, the maide replyde,
+    That you shold waxe so wode!
+  "But for all that shee could do or saye,
+    He wold not be withstood."
+
+  Sith you have had your wille of mee,
+    And put me to open shame,
+  Now, if you are a courteous knighte,
+    Tell me what is your name?
+
+  Some do call mee Jacke, sweet heart,
+    And some do call mee Jille;
+  But when I come to the kings faire courte
+    They call me Wilfulle Wille.
+
+  He sett his foot into the stirrup,
+    And awaye then he did ride;
+  She tuckt her girdle about her middle,
+    And ranne close by his side.
+
+  But when she came to the brode water,
+    She sett her brest and swamme;
+  And when she was got out againe,
+    She tooke to her heels and ranne.
+
+  He never was the courteous knighte,
+    To saye, faire maide, will ye ride?
+  "And she was ever too loving a maide
+    To saye, sir knighte abide."
+
+  When she came to the kings faire courte,
+    She knocked at the ring;
+  So readye was the king himself
+    To let this faire maide in.
+
+  Now Christ you save, my gracious liege,
+    Now Christ you save and see,
+  You have a knighte within your courte,
+    This daye hath robbed mee.
+
+  What hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart?
+    Of purple or of pall?
+  Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring
+    From off thy finger small?
+
+  He hath not robbed mee, my liege,
+    Of purple nor of pall:
+  But he hath gotten my maiden head,
+    Which grieves mee worst of all.
+
+  Now if he be a batchelor,
+    His bodye He give to thee;
+  But if he be a married man,
+    High hanged he shall bee.
+
+  He called downe his merrye men all,
+    By one, by two, by three;
+  Sir William used to bee the first,
+    But nowe the last came hee.
+
+  He brought her downe full fortye pounde,
+    Tyed up withinne a glove:
+  Faire maide, He give the same to thee;
+    Go, seeke thee another love.
+
+  O Ile have none of your gold, she sayde,
+    Nor Ile have none of your fee;
+  But your faire bodye I must have,
+    The king hath granted mee.
+
+  Sir William ranne and fetched her then
+    Five hundred pound in golde,
+  Saying, faire maide, take this to thee,
+    Thy fault will never be tolde.
+
+  Tis not the gold that shall mee tempt,
+    These words then answered shee,
+  But your own bodye I must have,
+    The king hath granted mee.
+
+  Would I had dranke the water cleare,
+    When I did drinke the wine,
+  Rather than any shepherds brat
+    Shold bee a ladye of mine!
+
+  Would I had drank the puddle foule,
+    When I did drink the ale,
+  Rather than ever a shepherds brat
+    Shold tell me such a tale!
+
+  A shepherds brat even as I was,
+    You mote have let me bee,
+  I never had come to the kings faire courte,
+    To crave any love of thee.
+
+  He sett her on a milk-white steede,
+    And himself upon a graye;
+  He hung a bugle about his necke,
+    And soe they rode awaye.
+
+  But when they came unto the place,
+    Where marriage-rites were done,
+  She proved herself a dukes daughtèr,
+    And he but a squires sonne.
+
+  Now marrye me, or not, sir knight,
+    Your pleasure shall be free:
+  If you make me ladye of one good towne,
+    He make you lord of three.
+
+  Ah! cursed bee the gold, he sayd,
+    If thou hadst not been trewe,
+  I shold have forsaken my sweet love,
+    And have changed her for a newe.
+
+  And now their hearts being linked fast,
+    They joyned hand in hande:
+  Thus he had both purse, and person too,
+    And all at his commande.
+
+
+
+
+
+KING ESTMERE
+
+
+  Hearken to me, gentlemen,
+    Come and you shall heare;
+  Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren
+    That ever borne y-were.
+
+  The tone of them was Adler younge,
+    The tother was kyng Estmere;
+  The were as bolde men in their deeds,
+    As any were farr and neare.
+
+  As they were drinking ale and wine
+    Within kyng Estmeres halle:
+  When will ye marry a wyfe, brothèr,
+    A wyfe to glad us all?
+
+  Then bespake him kyng Estmere,
+    And answered him hastilee:
+  I know not that ladye in any land
+    That's able to marrye with mee.
+
+  Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother,
+    Men call her bright and sheene;
+  If I were kyng here in your stead,
+    That ladye shold be my queene.
+
+  Saies, Reade me, reade me, deare brother,
+    Throughout merry Englànd,
+  Where we might find a messenger
+    Betwixt us towe to sende.
+
+  Saies, You shal ryde yourselfe, brothèr,
+    Ile beare you companye;
+  Many throughe fals messengers are deceived,
+    And I feare lest soe shold wee.
+
+  Thus the renisht them to ryde
+    Of twoe good renisht steeds,
+  And when the came to kyng Adlands halle,
+    Of redd gold shone their weeds.
+
+  And when the came to kyng Adlands hall
+    Before the goodlye gate,
+  There they found good kyng Adlànd
+    Rearing himselfe theratt.
+
+  Now Christ thee save, good kyng Adland;
+   Now Christ you save and see.
+  Sayd, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
+   Right hartilye to mee.
+
+  You have a daughter, said Adler younge,
+   Men call her bright and sheene,
+  My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe,
+   Of Englande to be queene.
+
+  Yesterday was att my deere daughter
+   Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne;
+  And then she nicked him of naye,
+   And I doubt sheele do you the same.
+
+  The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim,
+   And 'leeveth on Mahound;
+  And pitye it were that fayre ladye
+   Shold marrye a heathen hound.
+
+  But grant to me, sayes kyng Estmere,
+   For my love I you praye;
+  That I may see your daughter deere
+   Before I goe hence awaye.
+
+  Although itt is seven yeers and more
+   Since my daughter was in halle,
+  She shall come once downe for your sake
+   To glad my guestes alle.
+
+  Downe then came that mayden fayre,
+    With ladyes laced in pall,
+  And halfe a hundred of bold knightes,
+    To bring her from bowre to hall;
+  And as many gentle squiers,
+    To tend upon them all.
+
+  The talents of golde were on her head sette,
+    Hanged low downe to her knee;
+  And everye ring on her small fingèr
+    Shone of the chrystall free.
+
+  Saies, God you save, my deere madam;
+    Saies, God you save and see.
+  Said, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
+    Right welcome unto mee.
+
+  And if you love me, as you saye,
+    Soe well and hartilye,
+  All that ever you are comin about
+    Sooner sped now itt shal bee.
+
+  Then bespake her father deare:
+    My daughter, I saye naye;
+  Remember well the kyng of Spayne,
+    What he sayd yesterday.
+
+  He wold pull downe my hales and castles,
+     And reeve me of my life.
+  I cannot blame him if he doe,
+     If I reave him of his wyfe.
+
+  Your castles and your towres, father,
+     Are stronglye built aboute;
+  And therefore of the king of Spaine
+     Wee neede not stande in doubt.
+
+  Plight me your troth, nowe, kyng Estmère,
+     By heaven and your righte hand,
+  That you will marrye me to your wyfe,
+     And make me queene of your land.
+
+  Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth
+     By heaven and his righte hand,
+  That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe,
+     And make her queene of his land.
+
+  And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,
+     To goe to his owne countree,
+  To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,
+     That marryed the might bee.
+
+  They had not ridden scant a myle,
+     A myle forthe of the towne,
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
+     With kempès many one.
+
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
+     With manye a bold barone,
+  Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,
+     Tother daye to carrye her home.
+
+  Shee sent one after kyng Estmere
+     In all the spede might bee,
+  That he must either turne againe and fighte,
+     Or goe home and loose his ladye.
+
+  One whyle then the page he went,
+     Another while he ranne;
+  Tull he had oretaken king Estmere,
+      I wis, he never blanne.
+
+  Tydings, tydings, kyng Estmere!
+     What tydinges nowe, my boye?
+  O tydinges I can tell to you,
+     That will you sore annoye.
+
+  You had not ridden scant a mile,
+     A mile out of the towne,
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne
+     With kempès many a one:
+
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne
+     With manye a bold barone,
+  Tone daye to marrye king Adlands daughter,
+     Tother daye to carry her home.
+
+  My ladye fayre she greetes you well,
+   And ever-more well by mee:
+  You must either turne againe and fighte,
+   Or goe home and loose your ladyè.
+
+  Saies, Reade me, reade me, deere brother,
+   My reade shall ryde at thee,
+  Whether it is better to turne and fighte,
+   Or goe home and loose my ladye.
+
+  Now hearken to me, sayes Adler yonge,
+   And your reade must rise at me,
+  I quicklye will devise a waye
+   To sette thy ladye free.
+
+  My mother was a westerne woman,
+   And learned in gramaryè,
+  And when I learned at the schole,
+   Something she taught itt mee.
+
+  There growes an hearbe within this field,
+   And iff it were but knowne,
+  His color, which is whyte and redd,
+   It will make blacke and browne:
+
+  His color, which is browne and blacke,
+   Itt will make redd and whyte;
+  That sworde is not in all Englande,
+   Upon his coate will byte.
+
+  And you shall be a harper, brother,
+    Out of the north countrye;
+  And He be your boy, soe faine of fighte,
+    And beare your harpe by your knee.
+
+  And you shal be the best harpèr,
+    That ever tooke harpe in hand;
+  And I wil be the best singèr,
+    That ever sung in this lande.
+
+  Itt shal be written on our forheads
+    All and in grammaryè,
+  That we towe are the boldest men,
+    That are in all Christentyè.
+
+  And thus they renisht them to ryde,
+    On tow good renish steedes;
+  And when they came to king Adlands hall,
+    Of redd gold shone their weedes.
+
+  And whan they came to kyng Adlands hall,
+    Untill the fayre hall yate,
+  There they found a proud portèr
+    Rearing himselfe thereatt.
+
+  Sayes, Christ thee save, thou proud portèr;
+    Sayes, Christ thee save and see.
+  Nowe you be welcome, sayd the portèr,
+    Of whatsoever land ye bee.
+
+  Wee beene harpers, sayd Adler younge,
+    Come out of the northe countrye;
+  Wee beene come hither untill this place,
+    This proud weddinge for to see.
+
+  Sayd, And your color were white and redd,
+    As it is blacke and browne,
+  I wold saye king Estmere and his brother,
+    Were comen untill this towne.
+
+  Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,
+    Layd itt on the porters arme:
+  And ever we will thee, proud porter,
+    Thow wilt saye us no harme.
+
+  Sore he looked on king Estmere,
+    And sore he handled the ryng,
+  Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,
+    He lett for no kind of thyng.
+
+  King Estmere he stabled his steede
+    Soe fayre att the hall bord;
+  The froth, that came from his brydle bitte,
+    Light in kyng Bremors beard.
+
+  Saies, Stable thy steed, thou proud harper,
+    Saies, Stable him in the stalle;
+  It doth not beseeme a proud harper
+    To stable 'him' in a kyngs halle.
+
+  My ladde he is no lither, he said,
+    He will doe nought that's meete;
+  And is there any man in this hall
+    Were able him to beate
+
+  Thou speakst proud words, sayes the king of Spaine,
+    Thou harper, here to mee:
+  There is a man within this halle
+    Will beate thy ladd and thee.
+
+  O let that man come downe, he said,
+    A sight of him wold I see;
+  And when hee hath beaten well my ladd,
+    Then he shall beate of mee.
+
+  Downe then came the kemperye man,
+    And looketh him in the eare;
+  For all the gold, that was under heaven,
+    He durst not neigh him neare.
+
+  And how nowe, kempe, said the Kyng of Spaine,
+    And how what aileth thee?
+  He saies, It is writt in his forhead
+    All and in gramaryè,
+  That for all the gold that is under heaven
+    I dare not neigh him nye.
+
+  Then Kyng Estmere pulld forth his harpe,
+    And plaid a pretty thinge:
+  The ladye upstart from the borde,
+    And wold have gone from the king.
+
+  Stay thy harpe, thou proud harper,
+    For Gods love I pray thee,
+  For and thou playes as thou beginns,
+    Thou'lt till my bryde from mee.
+
+  He stroake upon his harpe againe,
+    And playd a pretty thinge;
+  The ladye lough a loud laughter,
+    As shee sate by the king.
+
+  Saies, Sell me thy harpe, thou proud harper,
+    And thy stringes all,
+  For as many gold nobles 'thou shall have'
+    As heere bee ringes in the hall.
+
+  What wold ye doe with my harpe,' he sayd,'
+    If I did sell itt yee?
+  "To playe my wiffe and me a fitt,
+    When abed together wee bee."
+
+  Now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay,
+    As shee sitts by thy knee,
+  And as many gold nobles I will give,
+    As leaves been on a tree.
+
+  And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay,
+    Iff I did sell her thee?
+  More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye
+    To lye by mee then thee.
+
+  Hee played agayne both loud and shrille,
+    And Adler he did syng,
+  "O ladye, this is thy owne true love;
+    Noe harper, but a kyng.
+
+  "O ladye, this is thy owne true love,
+    As playnlye thou mayest see;
+  And He rid thee of that foule paynim,
+    Who partes thy love and thee."
+
+  The ladye looked, the ladye blushte,
+    And blushte and lookt agayne,
+  While Adler he hath drawne his brande,
+    And hath the Sowdan slayne.
+
+  Up then rose the kemperye men,
+    And loud they gan to crye:
+  Ah; traytors, yee have slayne our kyng,
+    And therefore yee shall dye.
+
+  Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,
+    And swith he drew his brand;
+  And Estmere he, and Adler yonge
+    Right stiffe in slodr can stand.
+
+  And aye their swordes soe sore can byte,
+    Throughe help of Gramaryè,
+  That soone they have slayne the kempery men,
+    Or forst them forth to flee.
+
+  Kyng Estmere took that fayre ladye,
+    And marryed her to his wiffe,
+  And brought her home to merry England
+    With her to leade his life.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+
+
+  An ancient story Ile tell you anon
+  Of a notable prince, that was called King John;
+  And he ruled England with maine and with might,
+  For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.
+
+  And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,
+  Concerning the Abbot of Canterbùrye;
+  How for his house-keeping, and high renowne,
+  They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
+
+  An hundred men, the king did heare say,
+  The abbot kept in his house every day;
+  And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,
+  In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
+
+  How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,
+  Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,
+  And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,
+  I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.
+
+  My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne,
+  I never spend nothing, but what is my owne;
+  And I trust, your grace will doe me no deere,
+  For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.
+
+  Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe,
+  And now for the same thou needest must dye;
+  For except thou canst answer me questions three,
+  Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe.
+
+  And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead,
+  With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,
+  Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
+  Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
+
+  Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,
+  How soone I may ride the whole world about.
+  And at the third question thou must not shrink,
+  But tell me here truly what I do think.
+
+  O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
+  Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:
+  But if you will give me but three weekes space,
+  Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.
+
+  Now three weeks space to thee will I give,
+  And that is the longest time thou hast to live;
+  For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
+  Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.
+
+  Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,
+  And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;
+  But never a doctor there was so wise,
+  That could with his learning an answer devise.
+
+  Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,
+  And he mett his shepheard a going to fold:
+  How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;
+  What newes do you bring us from good King John?
+
+  "Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give;
+  That I have but three days more to live:
+  For if I do not answer him questions three,
+  My head will be smitten from my bodie.
+
+  The first is to tell him there in that stead,
+  With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,
+  Among all his liege men so noble of birth,
+  To within one penny of all what he is worth.
+
+  The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
+  How soon he may ride this whole world about:
+  And at the third question I must not shrinke,
+  But tell him there truly what he does thinke."
+
+  Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,
+  That a fool he may learn a wise man witt?
+  Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,
+  And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
+
+  Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
+  I am like your lordship, as ever may bee:
+  And if you will but lend me your gowne,
+  There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.
+
+  Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have,
+  With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;
+  With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,
+  Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.
+
+  Now welcome, sire abbott, the king he did say,
+  'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day;
+  For and if thou canst answer my questions three,
+  Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
+
+  And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
+  With my crowne of gold so fair on my head,
+  Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
+  Tell me to one penny what I am worth.
+
+  "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
+  Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told;
+  And twenty nine is the worth of thee,
+  For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,
+  I did not thinke I had been worth so littel!
+  --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,
+  How soon I may ride this whole world about.
+
+  "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
+  Until the next morning he riseth againe;
+  And then your grace need not make any doubt,
+  But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
+  I did not think, it could be gone so soone!
+  --Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,
+  But tell me here truly what I do thinke.
+
+  "Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:
+  You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbùry;
+  But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
+  That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
+  He make thee lord abbot this day in his place!
+  "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
+  For alacke I can neither write ne reade."
+
+  Four nobles a weeke, then I will give thee,
+  For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee;
+  And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,
+  Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.
+
+
+
+
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+
+
+  In Scarlet towne where I was borne,
+    There was a faire maid dwellin,
+  Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye!
+    Her name was Barbara Allen.
+
+  All in the merrye month of May,
+    When greene buds they were swellin,
+  Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,
+    For love of Barbara Allen.
+
+  He sent his man unto her then,
+    To the town where shee was dwellin;
+  You must come to my master deare,
+    Giff your name be Barbara Alien.
+
+  For death is printed on his face,
+    And ore his harte is stealin:
+  Then haste away to comfort him,
+    O lovelye Barbara Alien.
+
+  Though death be printed on his face,
+    And ore his harte is stealin,
+  Yet little better shall he bee
+    For bonny Barbara Alien.
+
+  So slowly, slowly, she came up,
+    And slowly she came nye him;
+  And all she sayd, when there she came,
+    Yong man, I think y'are dying.
+
+  He turned his face unto her strait,
+    With deadlye sorrow sighing;
+  O lovely maid, come pity mee,
+    Ime on my death-bed lying.
+
+  If on your death-bed you doe lye,
+    What needs the tale you are tellin;
+  I cannot keep you from your death;
+    Farewell, sayd Barbara Alien.
+
+  He turned his face unto the wall,
+    As deadlye pangs he fell in:
+  Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all,
+    Adieu to Barbara Allen.
+
+  As she was walking ore the fields,
+    She heard the bell a knellin;
+  And every stroke did seem to saye,
+    Unworthye Barbara Allen.
+
+  She turned her bodye round about,
+    And spied the corps a coming:
+  Laye down, lay down the corps, she sayd,
+    That I may look upon him.
+
+  With scornful eye she looked downe,
+    Her cheeke with laughter swellin;
+  Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine,
+    Unworthye Barbara Allen.
+
+  When he was dead, and laid in grave,
+    Her harte was struck with sorrowe,
+  O mother, mother, make my bed,
+    For I shall dye to-morrowe.
+
+  Hard-harted creature him to slight,
+    Who loved me so dearlye:
+  O that I had beene more kind to him
+    When he was alive and neare me!
+
+  She, on her death-bed as she laye,
+    Beg'd to be buried by him;
+  And sore repented of the daye,
+    That she did ere denye him.
+
+  Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all,
+    And shun the fault I fell in:
+  Henceforth take warning by the fall
+    Of cruel Barbara Allen.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+
+
+  When as King Henry rulde this land,
+    The second of that name,
+  Besides the queene, he dearly lovde
+    A faire and comely dame.
+
+  Most peerlesse was her beautye founde,
+    Her favour, and her face;
+  A sweeter creature in this worlde
+    Could never prince embrace.
+
+  Her crisped lockes like threads of golde
+    Appeard to each mans sight;
+  Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles,
+    Did cast a heavenlye light.
+
+  The blood within her crystal cheekes
+    Did such a colour drive,
+  As though the lillye and the rose
+    For mastership did strive.
+
+  Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde,
+    Her name was called so,
+  To whom our queene, dame Ellinor,
+    Was known a deadlye foe.
+
+  The king therefore, for her defence,
+    Against the furious queene,
+  At Woodstocke builded such a bower,
+    The like was never scene.
+
+  Most curiously that bower was built
+    Of stone and timber strong,
+  An hundred and fifty doors
+   Did to this bower belong:
+
+  And they so cunninglye contriv'd
+    With turnings round about,
+  That none but with a clue of thread,
+    Could enter in or out.
+
+  And for his love and ladyes sake,
+    That was so faire and brighte,
+  The keeping of this bower he gave
+    Unto a valiant knighte.
+
+  But fortune, that doth often frowne
+    Where she before did smile,
+  The kinges delighte and ladyes so
+    Full soon shee did beguile:
+
+  For why, the kinges ungracious sonne,
+    Whom he did high advance,
+  Against his father raised warres
+    Within the realme of France.
+
+  But yet before our comelye king
+    The English land forsooke,
+  Of Rosamond, his lady faire,
+    His farewelle thus he tooke:
+
+  "My Rosamonde, my only Rose,
+    That pleasest best mine eye:
+  The fairest flower in all the worlde
+    To feed my fantasye:
+
+  The flower of mine affected heart,
+    Whose sweetness doth excelle:
+  My royal Rose, a thousand times
+    I bid thee nowe farwelle!
+
+  For I must leave my fairest flower,
+    My sweetest Rose, a space,
+  And cross the seas to famous France,
+    Proud rebelles to abase.
+
+  But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt
+    My coming shortlye see,
+  And in my heart, when hence I am,
+    Ile beare my Rose with mee."
+
+  When Rosamond, that ladye brighte,
+    Did heare the king saye soe,
+  The sorrowe of her grieved heart
+    Her outward lookes did showe;
+
+  And from her cleare and crystall eyes
+    The teares gusht out apace,
+  Which like the silver-pearled dewe
+    Ranne downe her comely face.
+
+  Her lippes, erst like the corall redde,
+    Did waxe both wan and pale,
+  And for the sorrow she conceivde
+    Her vitall spirits faile;
+
+  And falling down all in a swoone
+    Before King Henryes face,
+  Full oft he in his princelye armes
+    Her bodye did embrace:
+
+  And twentye times, with watery eyes,
+    He kist her tender cheeke,
+  Untill he had revivde againe
+    Her senses milde and meeke.
+
+  Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?
+    The king did often say.
+  Because, quoth shee, to bloodye warres
+    My lord must part awaye.
+
+  But since your grace on forrayne coastes
+    Amonge your foes unkinde
+  Must goe to hazard life and limbe,
+    Why should I staye behinde?
+
+  Nay rather, let me, like a page,
+    Your sworde and target beare;
+  That on my breast the blowes may lighte,
+    Which would offend you there.
+
+  Or lett mee, in your royal tent,
+    Prepare your bed at nighte,
+  And with sweete baths refresh your grace,
+    Ar your returne from fighte.
+
+  So I your presence may enjoye
+    No toil I will refuse;
+  But wanting you, my life is death;
+    Nay, death Ild rather chuse!
+
+  "Content thy self, my dearest love;
+    Thy rest at home shall bee
+  In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle;
+    For travell fits not thee.
+
+  Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres;
+    Soft peace their sexe delights;
+  Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers;
+    Gay feastes, not cruell fights.'
+
+  My Rose shall safely here abide,
+    With musicke passe the daye;
+  Whilst I, amonge the piercing pikes,
+    My foes seeke far awaye.
+
+  My Rose shall shine in pearle, and golde,
+    Whilst Ime in armour dighte;
+  Gay galliards here my love shall dance,
+    Whilst I my foes goe fighte.
+
+  And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste
+    To bee my loves defence;
+  Be careful of my gallant Rose
+    When I am parted hence."
+
+  And therewithall he fetcht a sigh,
+    As though his heart would breake:
+  And Rosamonde, for very grief,
+    Not one plaine word could speake.
+
+  And at their parting well they mighte
+    In heart be grieved sore:
+  After that daye faire Rosamonde
+    The king did see no more.
+
+  For when his grace had past the seas,
+    And into France was gone;
+  With envious heart, Queene Ellinor,
+    To Woodstocke came anone.
+
+  And forth she calls this trustye knighte,
+    In an unhappy houre;
+  Who with his clue of twined thread,
+    Came from this famous bower.
+
+  And when that they had wounded him,
+    The queene this thread did gette,
+  And went where Ladye Rosamonde
+    Was like an angell sette.
+
+  But when the queene with stedfast eye
+    Beheld her beauteous face,
+  She was amazed in her minde
+    At her exceeding grace.
+
+  Cast off from thee those robes, she said,
+    That riche and costlye bee;
+  And drinke thou up this deadlye draught,
+    Which I have brought to thee.
+
+  Then presentlye upon her knees
+    Sweet Rosamonde did fall;
+  And pardon of the queene she crav'd
+    For her offences all.
+
+  "Take pitty on my youthfull yeares,"
+    Faire Rosamonde did crye;
+  "And lett mee not with poison stronge
+    Enforced bee to dye.
+
+  I will renounce my sinfull life,
+    And in some cloyster bide;
+  Or else be banisht, if you please,
+    To range the world soe wide.
+
+  And for the fault which I have done,
+    Though I was forc'd thereto,
+  Preserve my life, and punish mee
+    As you thinke meet to doe."
+
+  And with these words, her lillie handes
+    She wrunge full often there;
+  And downe along her lovely face
+    Did trickle many a teare.
+
+  But nothing could this furious queene
+    Therewith appeased bee;
+  The cup of deadlye poyson stronge,
+    As she knelt on her knee,
+
+  Shee gave this comelye dame to drinke;
+    Who tooke it in her hand,
+  And from her bended knee arose,
+    And on her feet did stand:
+
+  And casting up her eyes to heaven,
+    She did for mercye calle;
+  And drinking up the poison stronge,
+    Her life she lost withalle.
+
+  And when that death through everye limbe
+    Had showde its greatest spite,
+  Her chiefest foes did plaine confesse
+    Shee was a glorious wight.
+
+  Her body then they did entomb,
+    When life was fled away,
+  At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne,
+    As may be scene this day.
+
+
+
+
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+
+
+  When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre,
+    And leaves both large and longe,
+  Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrest
+    To heare the small birdes songe.
+
+  The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
+    Sitting upon the spraye,
+  Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,
+    In the greenwood where he lay.
+
+  Now by my faye, sayd jollye Robin,
+    A sweaven I had this night;
+  I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen,
+    That fast with me can fight.
+
+  Methought they did mee beate and binde,
+    And tooke my bow mee froe;
+  If I be Robin alive in this lande,
+    He be wroken on them towe.
+
+  Sweavens are swift, Master, quoth John,
+    As the wind that blowes ore a hill;
+  For if itt be never so loude this night,
+    To-morrow itt may be still.
+
+  Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
+    And John shall goe with mee,
+  For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen,
+    In greenwood where the bee.
+
+  Then the cast on their gownes of grene,
+    And tooke theyr bowes each one;
+  And they away to the greene forrest
+    A shooting forth are gone;
+
+  Until they came to the merry greenwood,
+    Where they had gladdest bee,
+  There were the ware of a wight yeoman,
+    His body leaned to a tree.
+
+  A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
+    Of manye a man the bane;
+  And he was clad in his capull hyde
+    Topp and tayll and mayne.
+
+  Stand you still, master, quoth Litle John,
+    Under this tree so grene,
+  And I will go to yond wight yeoman
+    To know what he doth meane.
+
+  Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,
+    And that I farley finde:
+  How offt send I my men beffore
+    And tarry my selfe behinde?
+
+  It is no cunning a knave to ken,
+    And a man but heare him speake;
+  And itt were not for bursting of my bowe.
+    John, I thy head wold breake.
+
+  As often wordes they breeden bale,
+    So they parted Robin and John;
+  And John is gone to Barnesdale;
+    The gates he knoweth eche one.
+
+  But when he came to Barnesdale,
+    Great heavinesse there hee hadd,
+  For he found tow of his owne fellòwes
+    Were slaine both in a slade.
+
+  And Scarlette he was flyinge a-foote
+    Fast over stocke and stone,
+  For the sheriffe with seven score men
+    Fast after him is gone.
+
+  One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John,
+    With Christ his might and mayne:
+  Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast,
+    To stopp he shall be fayne.
+
+  Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,
+    And fetteled him to shoote:
+  The bow was made of a tender boughe,
+    And fell down to his foote.
+
+  Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
+    That ere thou grew on a tree;
+  For now this day thou art my bale,
+    My boote when thou shold bee.
+
+  His shoote it was but loosely shott,
+    Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
+  For itt mett one of the sheriffes men,
+    Good William a Trent was slaine.
+
+  It had bene better of William a Trent
+    To have bene abed with sorrowe,
+  Than to be that day in the green wood slade
+    To meet with Little Johns arrowe.
+
+  But as it is said, when men be mett
+    Fyve can doe more than three,
+  The sheriffe hath taken little John,
+    And bound him fast to a tree.
+
+  Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,
+    And hanged hye on a hill.
+  But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John,
+    If itt be Christ his will.
+
+  Let us leave talking of Little John,
+    And thinke of Robin Hood,
+  How he is gone to the wight yeoman,
+    Where under the leaves he stood.
+
+  Good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre,
+    Good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he:
+   Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande
+    A good archere thou sholdst bee.
+
+  I am wilfull of my waye, quo' the yeman,
+    And of my morning tyde.
+  He lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin;
+    Good fellow, He be thy guide.
+
+  I seeke an outlàwe, the straunger sayd,
+    Men call him Robin Hood;
+  Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe,
+    Than fortye pound so good.
+
+  Now come with me, thou wighty yeman,
+    And Robin thou soone shalt see:
+  But first let us some pastime find
+    Under the greenwood tree.
+
+  First let us some masterye make
+    Among the woods so even,
+  Wee may chance to meet with Robin Hood
+    Here att some unsett steven.
+
+  They cut them downe two summer shroggs,
+    That grew both under a breere,
+  And sett them threescore rood in twaine
+    To shoot the prickes y-fere:
+
+  Lead on, good fellowe, quoth Robin Hood,
+    Lead on, I doe bidd thee.
+  Nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,
+    My leader thou shalt bee.
+
+  The first time Robin shot at the pricke,
+    He mist but an inch it froe:
+  The yeoman he was an archer good,
+    But he cold never shoote soe.
+
+  The second shoote had the wightye yeman,
+    He shote within the garlànde:
+  But Robin he shott far better than hee,
+    For he clave the good pricke wande.
+
+  A blessing upon thy heart, he sayd;
+    Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode;
+  For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,
+    Thou wert better then Robin Hoode.
+
+  Now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he,
+    Under the leaves of lyne.
+  Nay by my faith, quoth bolde Robin,
+    Till thou have told me thine.
+
+  I dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee,
+    And Robin to take Ime sworne;
+  And when I am called by my right name
+    I am Guye of good Gisborne.
+
+  My dwelling is in this wood, sayes Robin,
+    By thee I set right nought:
+  I am Robin Hood of Barnèsdale,
+    Whom thou so long hast sought.
+
+  He that hath neither beene kithe nor kin,
+    Might have scene a full fayre sight,
+  To see how together these yeomen went
+    With blades both browne and bright.
+
+  To see how these yeomen together they fought
+    Two howres of a summers day:
+  Yet neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy
+    Them fettled to flye away.
+
+  Robin was reachles on a roote,
+    And stumbled at that tyde;
+  And Guy was quick and nimble with-all,
+    And hitt him ore the left side.
+
+  Ah deere Lady, sayd Robin Hood, 'thou
+    That art both mother and may,'
+  I think it was never mans destinye
+    To dye before his day.
+
+  Robin thought on our ladye deere,
+    And soone leapt up againe,
+  And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke,
+    And he Sir Guy hath slayne.
+
+  He took Sir Guys head by the hayre,
+    And sticked itt on his bowes end:
+  Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe,
+    Which thing must have an ende.
+
+  Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,
+    And nicked Sir Guy in the face,
+  That he was never on woman born,
+    Cold tell whose head it was.
+
+  Saies, Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guye,
+    And with me be not wrothe,
+  If thou have had the worst stroked at my hand,
+    Thou shalt have the better clothe.
+
+  Robin did off his gowne of greene,
+    And on Sir Guy did it throwe,
+  And hee put on that capull hyde,
+    That cladd him topp to toe.
+
+  The bowe, the arrowes, and litle home,
+    Now with me I will beare;
+  For I will away to Barnesdale,
+    To see how my men doe fare.
+
+  Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth.
+    And a loud blast in it did blow.
+  That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
+    As he leaned under a lowe.
+
+  Hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe,
+    I heare now tydings good,
+  For yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blowe,
+    And he hath slaine Robin Hoode.
+
+  Yonder I heare Sir Guyes home blowe,
+    Itt blowes soe well in tyde,
+  And yonder comes that wightye yeoman,
+    Cladd in his capull hyde.
+
+  Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy,
+    Aske what thou wilt of mee.
+  O I will none of thy gold, sayd Robin,
+    Nor I will none of thy fee:
+
+  But now I have slaine the master, he sayes,
+    Let me go strike the knave;
+  This is all the rewarde I aske;
+    Nor noe other will I have.
+
+  Thou art a madman, said the sheriffe,
+    Thou sholdest have had a knights fee:
+  But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,
+    Well granted it shale be.
+
+  When Litle John heard his master speake,
+    Well knewe he it was his steven:
+  Now shall I be looset, quoth Litle John,
+    With Christ his might in heaven.
+
+  Fast Robin hee hyed him to Litle John,
+    He thought to loose him belive;
+  The sheriffe and all his companye
+    Fast after him did drive.
+  Stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd Robin;
+    Why draw you mee soe neere?
+  Itt was never the use in our countrye,
+    Ones shrift another shold heere.
+
+  But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe,
+    And losed John hand and foote,
+  And gave him Sir Guyes bow into his hand,
+    And bade it be his boote.
+
+  Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand,
+    His boltes and arrowes eche one:
+  When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,
+    He fettled him to be gone.
+
+  Towards his house in Nottingham towne
+    He fled full fast away;
+  And soe did all his companye:
+    Not one behind wold stay.
+
+  But he cold neither runne soe fast,
+    Nor away soe fast cold ryde,
+  But Litle John with an arrowe soe broad
+    He shott him into the 'back'-syde.
+
+
+
+
+THE BOY & THE MANTLE
+
+[Illustration: Boy and Mantle]
+
+  In Carleile dwelt King Arthur,
+    A prince of passing might;
+  And there maintain'd his table round,
+    Beset with many a knight.
+
+  And there he kept his Christmas
+    With mirth and princely cheare,
+  When, lo! a straunge and cunning boy
+    Before him did appeare.
+
+  A kirtle and a mantle
+    This boy had him upon,
+  With brooches, rings, and owches,
+    Full daintily bedone.
+
+  He had a sarke of silk
+    About his middle meet;
+  And thus, with seemely curtesy,
+    He did King Arthur greet.
+
+  "God speed thee, brave King Arthur,
+    Thus feasting in thy bowre;
+  And Guenever thy goodly queen,
+    That fair and peerlesse flowre.
+
+  "Ye gallant lords, and lordings,
+    I wish you all take heed,
+  Lest, what ye deem a blooming rose,
+    Should prove a cankred weed."
+
+  Then straitway from his bosome
+    A little wand he drew;
+  And with it eke a mantle
+    Of wondrous shape and hew.
+
+  "Now have you here, King Arthur,
+   Have this here of mee,
+  And give unto thy comely queen,
+   All-shapen as you see.
+
+  "No wife it shall become,
+    That once hath been to blame."
+  Then every knight in Arthur's court
+    Slye glaunced at his dame.
+
+  And first came Lady Guenever,
+    The mantle she must trye.
+  This dame, she was new-fangled,
+    And of a roving eye.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    And all was with it cladde,
+  From top to toe it shiver'd down,
+    As tho' with sheers beshradde.
+
+  One while it was too long,
+    Another while too short,
+  And wrinkled on her shoulders
+    In most unseemly sort.
+
+  Now green, now red it seemed,
+    Then all of sable hue.
+  "Beshrew me," quoth King Arthur,
+    "I think thou beest not true."
+
+  Down she threw the mantle,
+    Ne longer would not stay;
+  But, storming like a fury,
+    To her chamber flung away.
+
+  She curst the whoreson weaver,
+    That had the mantle wrought:
+  And doubly curst the froward impe,
+    Who thither had it brought.
+
+  "I had rather live in desarts
+    Beneath the green-wood tree;
+  Than here, base king, among thy groomes,
+    The sport of them and thee."
+
+  Sir Kay call'd forth his lady,
+    And bade her to come near:
+  "Yet, dame, if thou be guilty,
+    I pray thee now forbear."
+
+  This lady, pertly gigling,
+    With forward step came on,
+  And boldly to the little boy
+    With fearless face is gone.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    With purpose for to wear;
+  It shrunk up to her shoulder,
+    And left her b--- side bare.
+
+  Then every merry knight,
+    That was in Arthur's court,
+  Gib'd, and laught, and flouted,
+    To see that pleasant sport.
+
+  Downe she threw the mantle,
+    No longer bold or gay,
+  But with a face all pale and wan,
+    To her chamber slunk away.
+
+  Then forth came an old knight,
+    A pattering o'er his creed;
+  And proffer'd to the little boy
+    Five nobles to his meed;
+
+  "And all the time of Christmass
+    Plumb-porridge shall be thine,
+  If thou wilt let my lady fair
+    Within the mantle shine."
+
+  A saint his lady seemed,
+    With step demure and slow,
+  And gravely to the mantle
+    With mincing pace doth goe.
+
+  When she the same had taken,
+    That was so fine and thin,
+  It shrivell'd all about her,
+    And show'd her dainty skin.
+
+  Ah! little did HER mincing,
+    Or HIS long prayers bestead;
+  She had no more hung on her,
+    Than a tassel and a thread.
+
+  Down she threwe the mantle,
+    With terror and dismay,
+  And, with a face of scarlet,
+    To her chamber hyed away.
+
+  Sir Cradock call'd his lady,
+    And bade her to come neare:
+  "Come, win this mantle, lady,
+    And do me credit here.
+
+  "Come, win this mantle, lady,
+    For now it shall be thine,
+  If thou hast never done amiss,
+    Sith first I made thee mine."
+
+  The lady, gently blushing,
+    With modest grace came on,
+  And now to trye the wondrous charm
+    Courageously is gone.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    And put it on her backe,
+  About the hem it seemed
+    To wrinkle and to cracke.
+
+  "Lye still," shee cryed, "O mantle!
+    And shame me not for nought,
+  I'll freely own whate'er amiss,
+    Or blameful I have wrought.
+
+  "Once I kist Sir Cradocke
+    Beneathe the green-wood tree:
+  Once I kist Sir Cradocke's mouth
+    Before he married mee."
+
+  When thus she had her shriven,
+    And her worst fault had told,
+  The mantle soon became her
+    Right comely as it shold.
+
+  Most rich and fair of colour,
+    Like gold it glittering shone:
+  And much the knights in Arthur's court
+    Admir'd her every one.
+
+  Then towards King Arthur's table
+    The boy he turn'd his eye:
+  Where stood a boar's head garnished
+    With bayes and rosemarye.
+
+  When thrice he o'er the boar's head
+    His little wand had drawne,
+  Quoth he, "There's never a cuckold's knife
+    Can carve this head of brawne."
+
+  Then some their whittles rubbed
+    On whetstone, and on hone:
+  Some threwe them under the table,
+    And swore that they had none.
+
+  Sir Cradock had a little knife,
+    Of steel and iron made;
+  And in an instant thro' the skull
+    He thrust the shining blade.
+
+  He thrust the shining blade
+    Full easily and fast;
+  And every knight in Arthur's court
+    A morsel had to taste.
+
+  The boy brought forth a horne,
+    All golden was the rim:
+  Saith he, "No cuckolde ever can
+    Set mouth unto the brim.
+
+  "No cuckold can this little horne
+    Lift fairly to his head;
+  But or on this, or that side,
+    He shall the liquor shed."
+
+  Some shed it on their shoulder,
+    Some shed it on their thigh;
+  And hee that could not hit his mouth,
+    Was sure to hit his eye.
+
+  Thus he, that was a cuckold,
+    Was known of every man:
+  But Cradock lifted easily,
+    And wan the golden can.
+
+  Thus boar's head, horn and mantle,
+    Were this fair couple's meed:
+  And all such constant lovers,
+    God send them well to speed.
+
+  Then down in rage came Guenever,
+    And thus could spightful say,
+  "Sir Cradock's wife most wrongfully
+    Hath borne the prize away.
+
+  "See yonder shameless woman,
+    That makes herselfe so clean:
+  Yet from her pillow taken
+    Thrice five gallants have been.
+
+  "Priests, clarkes, and wedded men,
+    Have her lewd pillow prest:
+  Yet she the wonderous prize forsooth
+    Must beare from all the rest."
+
+  Then bespake the little boy,
+    Who had the same in hold:
+  "Chastize thy wife, King Arthur,
+    Of speech she is too bold:
+
+  "Of speech she is too bold,
+    Of carriage all too free;
+  Sir King, she hath within thy hall
+    A cuckold made of thee.
+
+  "All frolick light and wanton
+    She hath her carriage borne:
+  And given thee for a kingly crown
+    To wear a cuckold's horne."
+
+
+
+
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+
+PART THE FIRST
+
+
+  Lithe and listen, gentlemen,
+    To sing a song I will beginne:
+  It is of a lord of faire Scotland,
+    Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne.
+
+  His father was a right good lord,
+    His mother a lady of high degree;
+  But they, alas! were dead, him froe,
+    And he lov'd keeping companie.
+
+  To spend the daye with merry cheare,
+    To drinke and revell every night,
+  To card and dice from eve to morne,
+    It was, I ween, his hearts delighte.
+
+  To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare,
+    To alwaye spend and never spare,
+  I wott, an' it were the king himselfe,
+    Of gold and fee he mote be bare.
+
+  Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Linne
+    Till all his gold is gone and spent;
+  And he maun sell his landes so broad,
+    His house, and landes, and all his rent.
+
+  His father had a keen stewarde,
+    And John o' the Scales was called hee:
+  But John is become a gentel-man,
+    And John has gott both gold and fee.
+
+  Sayes, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne,
+    Let nought disturb thy merry cheere;
+  Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad,
+    Good store of gold Ile give thee heere,
+
+  My gold is gone, my money is spent;
+    My lande nowe take it unto thee:
+  Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales,
+    And thine for aye my lande shall bee.
+
+  Then John he did him to record draw,
+    And John he cast him a gods-pennie;
+  But for every pounde that John agreed,
+    The lande, I wis, was well worth three.
+
+  He told him the gold upon the borde,
+    He was right glad his land to winne;
+  The gold is thine, the land is mine,
+    And now Ile be the lord of Linne.
+
+  Thus he hath sold his land soe broad,
+    Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne,
+  All but a poore and lonesome lodge,
+    That stood far off in a lonely glenne.
+
+  For soe he to his father hight.
+    My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee,
+  Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad,
+    And thou wilt spend thy gold so free:
+
+  But sweare me nowe upon the roode,
+    That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend;
+  For when all the world doth frown on thee,
+    Thou there shalt find a faithful friend.
+
+  The heire of Linne is full of golde:
+    And come with me, my friends, sayd hee,
+  Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make,
+    And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee.
+
+  They ranted, drank, and merry made,
+    Till all his gold it waxed thinne;
+  And then his friendes they slunk away;
+    They left the unthrifty heire of Linne.
+
+  He had never a penny in his purse,
+    Never a penny left but three,
+  And one was brass, another was lead,
+    And another it was white money.
+
+  Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    Nowe well-aday, and woe is mee,
+  For when I was the lord of Linne,
+    I never wanted gold nor fee.
+
+  But many a trustye friend have I,
+    And why shold I feel dole or care?
+  Ile borrow of them all by turnes,
+    Soe need I not be never bare.
+
+  But one, I wis, was not at home;
+    Another had payd his gold away;
+  Another call'd him thriftless loone,
+    And bade him sharpely wend his way.
+
+  Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    Now well-aday, and woe is me;
+  For when I had my landes so broad,
+    On me they liv'd right merrilee.
+
+  To beg my bread from door to door
+    I wis, it were a brenning shame:
+  To rob and steale it were a sinne:
+    To worke my limbs I cannot frame.
+
+  Now Ile away to lonesome lodge,
+    For there my father bade me wend;
+  When all the world should frown on mee
+    I there shold find a trusty friend.
+
+
+PART THE SECOND
+
+
+  Away then hyed the heire of Linne
+    Oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne,
+  Untill he came to lonesome lodge,
+    That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne.
+
+  He looked up, he looked downe,
+    In hope some comfort for to winne:
+  But bare and lothly were the walles.
+    Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne.
+
+  The little windowe dim and darke
+    Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe;
+  No shimmering sunn here ever shone;
+    No halesome breeze here ever blew.
+
+  No chair, ne table he mote spye,
+    No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed,
+  Nought save a rope with renning noose,
+    That dangling hung up o'er his head.
+
+  And over it in broad letters,
+    These words were written so plain to see:
+  "Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all,
+    And brought thyselfe to penurie?
+
+  "All this my boding mind misgave,
+    I therefore left this trusty friend:
+  Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace,
+    And all thy shame and sorrows end."
+
+  Sorely shent wi' this rebuke,
+    Sorely shent was the heire of Linne,
+  His heart, I wis, was near to brast     With guilt and sorrowe, shame
+and sinne.
+
+  Never a word spake the heire of Linne,
+    Never a word he spake but three:
+  "This is a trusty friend indeed,
+    And is right welcome unto mee."
+
+  Then round his necke the corde he drewe,
+    And sprung aloft with his bodie:
+  When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine,
+    And to the ground came tumbling hee.
+
+  Astonyed lay the heire of Linne,
+    Ne knewe if he were live or dead:
+  At length he looked, and saw a bille,
+    And in it a key of gold so redd.
+
+  He took the bill, and lookt it on,
+    Strait good comfort found he there:
+  It told him of a hole in the wall,
+    In which there stood three chests in-fere.
+
+  Two were full of the beaten golde,
+   The third was full of white money;
+  And over them in broad letters
+   These words were written so plaine to see:
+
+  "Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere;
+   Amend thy life and follies past;
+  For but thou amend thee of thy life,
+   That rope must be thy end at last."
+
+  And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne;
+   And let it bee, but if I amend:
+  For here I will make mine avow,
+   This reade shall guide me to the end.
+
+  Away then went with a merry cheare,
+   Away then went the heire of Linne;
+  I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne,
+   Till John o' the Scales house he did winne.
+
+  And when he came to John o' the Scales,
+   Upp at the speere then looked hee;
+  There sate three lords upon a rowe,
+   Were drinking of the wine so free.
+
+  And John himself sate at the bord-head,
+   Because now lord of Linne was hee.
+  I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales,
+   One forty pence for to lend mee.
+
+  Away, away, thou thriftless loone;
+    Away, away, this may not bee:
+  For Christs curse on my head, he sayd,
+    If ever I trust thee one pennìe.
+
+  Then bespake the heire of Linne,
+    To John o' the Scales wife then spake he:
+  Madame, some almes on me bestowe,
+    I pray for sweet Saint Charitìe.
+
+  Away, away, thou thriftless loone,
+    I swear thou gettest no almes of mee;
+  For if we shold hang any losel heere,
+    The first we wold begin with thee.
+
+  Then bespake a good fellòwe,
+    Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord
+  Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne;
+    Some time thou wast a well good lord;
+
+  Some time a good fellow thou hast been,
+    And sparedst not thy gold nor fee;
+  Therefore He lend thee forty pence,
+    And other forty if need bee.
+
+  And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales,
+    To let him sit in thy companie:
+  For well I wot thou hadst his land,
+    And a good bargain it was to thee.
+
+  Up then spake him John o' the Scales,
+    All wood he answer'd him againe:
+  Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd,
+    But I did lose by that bargàine.
+
+  And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne,
+    Before these lords so faire and free,
+  Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape,
+    By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.
+
+  I draw you to record, lords, he said.
+    With that he cast him a gods pennie:
+  Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    And here, good John, is thy monèy.
+
+  And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold,
+    And layd them down upon the bord:
+  All woe begone was John o' the Scales,
+    Soe shent he cold say never a word.
+
+  He told him forth the good red gold,
+    He told it forth with mickle dinne.
+  The gold is thine, the land is mine,
+    And now Ime againe the lord of Linne.
+
+  Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellòwe,
+    Forty pence thou didst lend me:
+  Now I am againe the lord of Linne,
+    And forty pounds I will give thee.
+
+  He make the keeper of my forrest,
+    Both of the wild deere and the tame;
+  For but I reward thy bounteous heart,
+    I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.
+
+  Now welladay! sayth Joan o' the Scales:
+    Now welladay! and woe is my life!
+  Yesterday I was lady of Linne,
+    Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife.
+
+  Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne;
+    Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee:
+  Christs curse light on me, if ever again
+    I bring my lands in jeopardy.
+
+
+
+
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+
+
+  I Read that once in Affrica
+    A princely wight did raine,
+  Who had to name Cophetua,
+    As poets they did faine:
+  From natures lawes he did decline,
+  For sure he was not of my mind.
+  He cared not for women-kinde,
+    But did them all disdaine.
+  But, marke, what hapened on a day,
+  As he out of his window lay,
+  He saw a beggar all in gray,
+    The which did cause his paine.
+
+  The blinded boy, that shootes so trim,
+    From heaven downe did hie;
+  He drew a dart and shot at him,
+    In place where he did lye:
+  Which soone did pierse him to the quicke.
+  And when he felt the arrow pricke,
+  Which in his tender heart did sticke,
+    He looketh as he would dye.
+  What sudden chance is this, quoth he,
+  That I to love must subject be,
+  Which never thereto would agree,
+    But still did it defie?
+
+  Then from the window he did come,
+    And laid him on his bed,
+  A thousand heapes of care did runne
+    Within his troubled head:
+  For now he meanes to crave her love,
+  And now he seekes which way to proove
+  How he his fancie might remoove,
+    And not this beggar wed.
+  But Cupid had him so in snare,
+  That this poor begger must prepare
+  A salve to cure him of his care,
+    Or els he would be dead.
+
+  And, as he musing thus did lye,
+    He thought for to devise
+  How he might have her companye,
+    That so did 'maze his eyes.
+  In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life;
+  For surely thou shalt be my wife,
+  Or else this hand with bloody knife
+    The Gods shall sure suffice.
+  Then from his bed he soon arose,
+  And to his pallace gate he goes;
+  Full little then this begger knowes
+    When she the king espies.
+
+  The Gods preserve your majesty,
+    The beggers all gan cry:
+  Vouchsafe to give your charity
+    Our childrens food to buy.
+  The king to them his pursse did cast,
+    And they to part it made great haste;
+  This silly woman was the last
+    That after them did hye.
+  The king he cal'd her back againe,
+  And unto her he gave his chaine;
+  And said, With us you shal remaine
+    Till such time as we dye:
+
+  For thou, quoth he, shalt be my wife,
+    And honoured for my queene;
+  With thee I meane to lead my life,
+    As shortly shall be seene:
+  Our wedding shall appointed be,
+  And every thing in its degree:
+  Come on, quoth he, and follow me,
+    Thou shalt go shift thee cleane.
+  What is thy name, faire maid? quoth he.
+  Penelophon, O king, quoth she;
+  With that she made a lowe courtsey;
+    A trim one as I weene.
+
+  Thus hand in hand along they walke
+    Unto the king's pallace:
+  The king with curteous comly talke
+    This beggar doth imbrace:
+  The begger blusheth scarlet red,
+  And straight againe as pale as lead,
+  But not a word at all she said,
+    She was in such amaze.
+  At last she spake with trembling voyce,
+  And said, O king, I doe rejoyce
+  That you wil take me from your choyce,
+    And my degree's so base.
+
+  And when the wedding day was come,
+    The king commanded strait
+  The noblemen both all and some
+    Upon the queene to wait.
+  And she behaved herself that day,
+  As if she had never walkt the way;
+  She had forgot her gown of gray,
+    Which she did weare of late.
+  The proverbe old is come to passe,
+  The priest, when he begins his masse,
+  Forgets that ever clerke he was;
+    He knowth not his estate.
+
+  Here you may read, Cophetua,
+    Though long time fancie-fed,
+  Compelled by the blinded boy
+    The begger for to wed:
+  He that did lovers lookes disdaine,
+  To do the same was glad and faine,
+  Or else he would himselfe have slaine,
+  In storie, as we read.
+    Disdaine no whit, O lady deere,
+    But pitty now thy servant heere,
+    Least that it hap to thee this yeare,
+      As to that king it did.
+
+  And thus they led a quiet life
+    Duringe their princely raigne;
+  And in a tombe were buried both,
+    As writers sheweth plaine.
+  The lords they tooke it grievously,
+  The ladies tooke it heavily,
+  The commons cryed pitiously,
+    Their death to them was paine,
+    Their fame did sound so passingly,
+    That it did pierce the starry sky,
+    And throughout all the world did flye
+      To every princes realme.
+
+[Illustration:  Decorative ]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+
+
+  'When Flora with her fragrant flowers
+    Bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye,
+  And Neptune with his daintye showers
+    Came to present the monthe of Maye;'
+  King Henrye rode to take the ayre,
+    Over the river of Thames past hee;
+  When eighty merchants of London came,
+    And downe they knelt upon their knee.
+
+  "O yee are welcome, rich merchants;
+    Good saylors, welcome unto mee."
+  They swore by the rood, they were saylors good,
+    But rich merchànts they cold not bee:
+  "To France nor Flanders dare we pass:
+    Nor Bourdeaux voyage dare we fare;
+  And all for a rover that lyes on the seas,
+    Who robbs us of our merchant ware."
+
+  King Henrye frowned, and turned him rounde,
+    And swore by the Lord, that was mickle of might,
+  "I thought he had not beene in the world,
+    Durst have wrought England such unright."
+  The merchants sighed, and said, alas!
+    And thus they did their answer frame,
+  He is a proud Scott, that robbs on the seas,
+    And Sir Andrewe Barton is his name.
+
+  The king lookt over his left shoulder,
+    And an angrye look then looked hee:
+  "Have I never a lorde in all my realme,
+    Will feitch yond tray tor unto me?"
+  Yea, that dare I; Lord Howard sayes;
+    Yea, that dare I with heart and hand;
+  If it please your grace to give me leave,
+    Myselfe wil be the only man.
+
+  Thou art but yong; the kyng replyed:
+    Yond Scott hath numbered manye a yeare.
+  "Trust me, my liege, lie make him quail,
+    Or before my prince I will never appeare."
+  Then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have,
+    And chuse them over my realme so free;
+  Besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes,
+    To guide the great shipp on the sea.
+
+  The first man, that Lord Howard chose,
+    Was the ablest gunner in all the realm,
+  Thoughe he was three score yeeres and ten;
+    Good Peter Simon was his name.
+  Peter, sais hee, I must to the sea,
+    To bring home a traytor live or dead:
+  Before all others I have chosen thee;
+    Of a hundred gunners to be the head.
+
+  If you, my lord, have chosen mee
+    Of a hundred gunners to be the head,
+  Then hang me up on your maine-mast tree,
+    If I misse my marke one shilling bread.
+  My lord then chose a boweman rare,
+    "Whose active hands had gained fame."
+  In Yorkshire was this gentleman borne,
+    And William Horseley was his name.
+
+  Horseley, said he, I must with speede
+    Go seeke a traytor on the sea,
+  And now of a hundred bowemen brave
+    To be the head I have chosen thee.
+  If you, quoth hee, have chosen mee
+    Of a hundred bowemen to be the head
+  On your main-mast He hanged bee,
+    If I miss twelvescore one penny bread.
+
+  With pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold,
+    This noble Howard is gone to the sea;
+  With a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare,
+    Out at Thames mouth sayled he.
+  And days he scant had sayled three,
+    Upon the 'voyage,' he tooke in hand,
+  But there he mett with a noble shipp,
+    And stoutely made itt stay and stand.
+
+  Thou must tell me, Lord Howard said,
+    Now who thou art, and what's thy name;
+  And shewe me where they dwelling is:
+    And whither bound, and whence thou came.
+  My name is Henry Hunt, quoth hee
+    With a heavye heart, and a carefull mind;
+  I and my shipp doe both belong
+    To the Newcastle, that stands upon Tyne.
+
+  Hast thou not heard, nowe, Henrye Hunt,
+    As thou hast sayled by daye and by night,
+  Of a Scottish rover on the seas;
+    Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight!
+  Then ever he sighed, and said alas!
+    With a grieved mind, and well away!
+  But over-well I knowe that wight,
+    I was his prisoner yesterday.
+
+  As I was sayling uppon the sea,
+    A Burdeaux voyage for to fare;
+  To his hach-borde he clasped me,
+    And robd me of all my merchant ware:
+  And mickle debts, God wot, I owe,
+    And every man will have his owne;
+  And I am nowe to London bounde,
+    Of our gracious king to beg a boone.
+
+  That shall not need, Lord Howard sais;
+    Lett me but once that robber see,
+  For every penny tane thee froe
+    It shall be doubled shillings three.
+  Nowe God forefend, the merchant said,
+    That you should seek soe far amisse!
+  God keepe you out of that traitors hands!
+    Full litle ye wott what a man hee is.
+
+  Hee is brasse within, and steele without,
+    With beames on his topcastle stronge;
+  And eighteen pieces of ordinance
+    He carries on each side along:
+  And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight,
+    St. Andrewes crosse that is his guide;
+  His pinnace beareth ninescore men,
+    And fifteen canons on each side.
+
+  Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one;
+    I sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall;
+  He wold overcome them everye one,
+    If once his beames they doe downe fall.
+  This is cold comfort, sais my lord,
+    To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea:
+  Yet He bring him and his ship to shore,
+    Or to Scottland hee shall carrye mee.
+
+
+  Then a noble gunner you must have,
+    And he must aim well with his ee,
+  And sinke his pinnace into the sea,
+    Or else hee never orecome will bee:
+  And if you chance his shipp to borde,
+    This counsel I must give withall,
+  Let no man to his topcastle goe
+    To strive to let his beams downe fall.
+
+
+  And seven pieces of ordinance,
+    I pray your honour lend to mee,
+  On each side of my shipp along,
+    And I will lead you on the sea.
+  A glasse He sett, that may be seene
+    Whether you sail by day or night;
+  And to-morrowe, I sweare, by nine of the clocke
+    You shall meet with Sir Andrewe Barton knight.
+
+
+  THE SECOND PART
+
+
+  The merchant sett my lorde a glasse
+    Soe well apparent in his sight,
+  And on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke,
+    He shewed him Sir Andrewe Barton knight.
+  His hachebord it was 'gilt' with gold,
+    Soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee:
+  Nowe by my faith, Lord Howarde sais,
+    This is a gallant sight to see.
+
+  Take in your ancyents, standards eke,
+    So close that no man may them see;
+  And put me forth a white willowe wand,
+    As merchants use to sayle the sea.
+  But they stirred neither top, nor mast;
+    Stoutly they past Sir Andrew by.
+  What English churles are yonder, he sayd,
+    That can soe little curtesye?
+
+  Now by the roode, three yeares and more
+    I have beene admirall over the sea;
+  And never an English nor Portingall
+    Without my leave can passe this way.
+  Then called he forth his stout pinnace;
+    "Fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee:
+  I sweare by the masse, yon English churles
+    Shall all hang att my maine-mast tree."
+
+  With that the pinnace itt shot off,
+    Full well Lord Howard might it ken;
+  For itt stroke down my lord's fore mast,
+    And killed fourteen of his men.
+  Come hither, Simon, sayes my lord,
+    Looke that thy word be true, thou said;
+  For at my maine-mast thou shalt hang,
+    If thou misse thy marke one shilling bread.
+
+  Simon was old, but his heart itt was bold;
+    His ordinance he laid right lowe;
+  He put in chaine full nine yardes long,
+    With other great shott lesse, and moe;
+  And he lette goe his great gunnes shott:
+    Soe well he settled itt with his ee,
+  The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe,
+    He see his pinnace sunke in the sea.
+
+  And when he saw his pinnace sunke,
+    Lord, how his heart with rage did swell!
+  "Nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon;
+    Ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell."
+  When my lord sawe Sir Andrewe loose,
+    Within his heart he was full faine:
+  "Now spread your ancyents, strike up your drummes,
+    Sound all your trumpetts out amaine."
+
+  Fight on, my men, Sir Andrewe sais,
+    Weale howsoever this geere will sway;
+  Itt is my Lord Admirall of England,
+    Is come to seeke mee on the sea.
+  Simon had a sonne, who shott right well,
+    That did Sir Andrewe mickle scare;
+  In att his decke he gave a shott,
+    Killed threescore of his men of warre.
+
+  Then Henrye Hunt with rigour hott
+    Came bravely on the other side,
+  Soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree,
+    And killed fourscore men beside.
+  Nowe, out alas! Sir Andrewe cryed,
+    What may a man now thinke, or say?
+  Yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee,
+    He was my prisoner yesterday.
+
+  Come hither to me, thou Gordon good,
+    That aye wast readye att my call:
+  I will give thee three hundred markes,
+    If thou wilt let my beames downe fall.
+  Lord Howard hee then calld in haste,
+    "Horseley see thou be true in stead;
+  For thou shalt at the maine-mast hang,
+    If thou misse twelvescore one penny bread."
+
+  Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree,
+    He swarved it with might and maine;
+  But Horseley with a bearing arrowe,
+    Stroke the Gordon through the braine;
+  And he fell unto the haches again,
+    And sore his deadlye wounde did bleed:
+  Then word went through Sir Andrews men,
+    How that the Gordon hee was dead.
+
+  Come hither to mee, James Hambilton,
+    Thou art my only sisters sonne,
+  If thou wilt let my beames downe fall
+    Six hundred nobles thou hast wonne.
+  With that he swarved the maine-mast tree,
+    He swarved it with nimble art;
+  But Horseley with a broad arròwe
+    Pierced the Hambilton thorough the heart:
+
+  And downe he fell upon the deck,
+    That with his blood did streame amaine:
+  Then every Scott cryed, Well-away!
+    Alas! a comelye youth is slaine.
+  All woe begone was Sir Andrew then,
+    With griefe and rage his heart did swell:
+  "Go fetch me forth my armour of proofe,
+    For I will to the topcastle mysell."
+
+  "Goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe;
+    That gilded is with gold soe cleare:
+  God be with my brother John of Barton!
+    Against the Portingalls hee it ware;
+  And when he had on this armour of proofe,
+    He was a gallant sight to see:
+  Ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight,
+    My deere brother, could cope with thee."
+
+  Come hither Horseley, sayes my lord,
+    And looke your shaft that itt goe right,
+  Shoot a good shoote in time of need,
+    And for it thou shalt be made a knight.
+  Ile shoot my best, quoth Horseley then,
+    Your honour shall see, with might and maine;
+  But if I were hanged at your maine-mast,
+    I have now left but arrowes twaine.
+
+  Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree,
+   With right good will he swarved then:
+  Upon his breast did Horseley hitt,
+    But the arrow bounded back agen.
+  Then Horseley spyed a privye place
+    With a perfect eye in a secrette part;
+  Under the spole of his right arme
+    He smote Sir Andrew to the heart.
+
+  "Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes,
+    "A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine;
+  He but lye downe and bleede a while,
+    And then He rise and fight againe.
+  Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes,
+    "And never flinch before the foe;
+  And stand fast by St. Andrewes crosse
+    Until you heare my whistle blowe."
+
+  They never heard his whistle blow--
+    Which made their hearts waxe sore adread:
+  Then Horseley sayd, Aboard, my lord,
+    For well I wott Sir Andrew's dead.
+  They boarded then his noble shipp,
+    They boarded it with might and maine;
+  Eighteen score Scots alive they found,
+    The rest were either maimed or slaine.
+
+  Lord Howard tooke a sword in hand,
+    And off he smote Sir Andrewes head,
+  "I must have left England many a daye,
+    If thou wert alive as thou art dead."
+  He caused his body to be cast
+    Over the hatchboard into the sea,
+  And about his middle three hundred crownes:
+    "Wherever thou land this will bury thee."
+
+  Thus from the warres Lord Howard came,
+    And backe he sayled ore the maine,
+  With mickle joy and triumphing
+    Into Thames mouth he came againe.
+  Lord Howard then a letter wrote,
+    And sealed it with scale and ring;
+  "Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace,
+    As never did subject to a king:
+
+  "Sir Andrewes shipp I bring with mee;
+    A braver shipp was never none:
+  Nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr,
+    Before in England was but one."
+  King Henryes grace with royall cheere
+    Welcomed the noble Howard home,
+  And where, said he, is this rover stout,
+   That I myselfe may give the doome?
+
+  "The rover, he is safe, my liege,
+    Full many a fadom in the sea;
+  If he were alive as he is dead,
+    I must have left England many a day:
+  And your grace may thank four men i' the ship
+    For the victory wee have wonne,
+  These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt,
+    And Peter Simon, and his sonne."
+
+  To Henry Hunt, the king then sayd,
+    In lieu of what was from thee tane,
+  A noble a day now thou shalt have,
+    Sir Andrewes jewels and his chayne.
+  And Horseley thou shalt be a knight,
+    And lands and livings shalt have store;
+  Howard shall be erle Surrye hight,
+    As Howards erst have beene before.
+
+  Nowe, Peter Simon, thou art old,
+    I will maintaine thee and thy sonne:
+  And the men shall have five hundred markes
+    For the good service they have done.
+  Then in came the queene with ladyes fair
+    To see Sir Andrewe Barton knight:
+  They weend that hee were brought on shore,
+    And thought to have seen a gallant sight.
+
+  But when they see his deadlye face,
+    And eyes soe hollow in his head,
+  I wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes,
+    This man were alive as hee is dead:
+  Yett for the manfull part hee playd,
+    Which fought soe well with heart and hand,
+  His men shall have twelvepence a day,
+    Till they come to my brother kings high land.
+
+
+
+
+MAY COLLIN
+
+
+  May Collin ...
+    ... was her father's heir,
+  And she fell in love with a false priest,
+    And she rued it ever mair.
+
+  He followd her butt, he followd her benn,
+    He followd her through the hall,
+  Till she had neither tongue nor teeth
+    Nor lips to say him naw.
+
+  "We'll take the steed out where he is,
+    The gold where eer it be,
+  And we'll away to some unco land,
+    And married we shall be."
+
+  They had not riden a mile, a mile,
+    A mile but barely three,
+  Till they came to a rank river,
+    Was raging like the sea.
+
+  "Light off, light off now, May Collin,
+    It's here that you must die;
+  Here I have drownd seven king's daughters,
+    The eight now you must be.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your gown that's of the green;
+  For it's oer good and oer costly
+    To rot in the sea-stream.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your coat that's of the black;
+  For it's oer good and oer costly
+    To rot in the sea-wreck.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your stays that are well laced;
+  For thei'r oer good and costly
+    In the sea's ground to waste.
+
+  "Cast [off, cast off now, May Collin,]
+    Your sark that's of the holland;
+  For [it's oer good and oer costly]
+    To rot in the sea-bottom."
+
+  "Turn you about now, falsh Mess John,
+    To the green leaf of the tree;
+  It does not fit a mansworn man
+    A naked woman to see."
+
+  He turnd him quickly round about,
+    To the green leaf of the tree;
+  She took him hastly in her arms
+    And flung him in the sea.
+
+  "Now lye you there, you falsh Mess John,
+    My mallasin go with thee!
+  You thought to drown me naked and bare,
+    But take your cloaths with thee,
+  And if there be seven king's daughters there
+    Bear you them company"
+
+  She lap on her milk steed
+    And fast she bent the way,
+  And she was at her father's yate
+    Three long hours or day.
+
+  Up and speaks the wylie parrot,
+    So wylily and slee:
+  "Where is the man now, May Collin,
+    That gaed away wie thee?"
+
+  "Hold your tongue, my wylie parrot,
+    And tell no tales of me,
+  And where I gave a pickle befor
+    It's now I'll give you three."
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+
+
+PART THE FIRST
+
+
+  Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight,
+  He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright;
+  And many a gallant brave suiter had shee,
+  For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee.
+
+  And though shee was of favour most faire,
+  Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre,
+  Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee,
+  Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee.
+
+  Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say,
+  Good father, and mother, let me goe away
+  To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee.
+  This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee.
+
+  Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright,
+  All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night
+  From father and mother alone parted shee;
+  Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee.
+
+  Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow;
+  Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe:
+  With teares shee lamented her hard destinie,
+  So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Shee kept on her journey untill it was day,
+  And went unto Rumford along the hye way;
+  Where at the Queenes armes entertained was shee;
+  Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Shee had not beene there a month to an end,
+  But master and mistress and all was her friend:
+  And every brave gallant, that once did her see,
+  Was straight-way enamoured of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold,
+  And in their songs daylye her love was extold;
+  Her beawtye was blazed in every degree;
+  Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee.
+
+  The young men of Rumford in her had their joy;
+  Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye;
+  And at her commandment still wold they bee;
+  Soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Foure suitors att once unto her did goe;
+  They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe;
+  I wold not wish gentles to marry with mee.
+  Yett ever they honored prettye Bessee.
+
+  The first of them was a gallant young knight,
+  And he came unto her disguisde in the night;
+  The second a gentleman of good degree,
+  Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee.
+
+  A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small,
+  He was the third suiter, and proper withall:
+  Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee,
+  Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee.
+
+  And, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight,
+  Ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight;
+  My hart's so inthralled by thy bewtle,
+  That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee.
+
+  The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with mee,
+  As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee:
+  My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee;
+  And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee.
+
+  Let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say,
+  Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay;
+  My shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee,
+  And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.
+
+  Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus she did say,
+  My father and mother I meane to obey;
+  First gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee,
+  And you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee.
+
+  To every one this answer shee made,
+  Wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd,
+  This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree;  But where dwells thy father,
+my prettye Besse?
+
+  My father, shee said, is soone to be seene:
+  The seely blind beggar of Bednall-greene,
+  That daylye sits begging for charitie,
+  He is the good father of pretty Bessee.
+
+  His markes and his tokens are knowen very well;
+  He alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell:
+  A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee,
+  Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee:
+  Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee:
+  I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree,
+  And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee!
+
+  Why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse,
+  I waighe not true love by the waight of my pursse,
+  And bewtye is bewtye in every degree;
+  Then welcome unto me, my prettye Bessee.
+
+  With thee to thy father forthwith I will goe.
+  Nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe;
+  A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee,
+  Then take thy adew of pretty Bessee.
+
+  But soone after this, by breake of the day,
+  The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away.
+  The younge men of Rumford, as thicke might bee,
+  Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee.
+
+  As swifte as the winde to ryde they were scene,
+  Untill they came neare unto Bednall-greene;
+  And as the knight lighted most courteouslìe,
+  They all fought against him for pretty Bessee.
+
+  But rescew came speedilye over the plaine,
+  Or else the young knight for his love had been slaine.
+  This fray being ended, then straitway he see
+  His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee.
+
+  Then spake the blind beggar, Although I bee poore,
+  Yett rayle not against my child at my own doore:
+  Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle,
+  Yett will I dropp angells with you for my girle.
+
+  And then, if my gold may better her birthe,
+  And equall the gold that you lay on the earth,
+  Then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see
+  The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee.
+
+  But first you shall promise, and have it well knowne,
+  The gold that you drop shall all be your owne.
+  With that they replyed, Contented bee wee.
+  Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that an angell he cast on the ground,
+  And dropped in angels full three thousand pound;
+  And oftentime itt was proved most plaine,
+  For the gentlemens one the beggar droppt twayne:
+
+  Soe that the place, wherin they did sitt,
+  With gold it was covered every whitt.
+  The gentlemen then having dropt all their store,
+  Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more.
+
+  Thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright.
+  Then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight;
+  And heere, added hee, I will now throwe you downe
+  A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne.
+
+  The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene,
+  Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene:
+  And all those, that were her suitors before,
+  Their fleshe for very anger they tore.
+
+  Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight,
+  And then made a ladye in others despite:
+  A fairer ladye there never was seene,
+  Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall-greene.
+
+  But of their sumptuous marriage and feast,
+  What brave lords and knights thither were prest,
+  The SECOND FITT shall set forth to your sight
+  With marveilous pleasure, and wished delight.
+
+
+PART THE SECOND
+
+
+  Off a blind beggars daughter most bright,
+  That late was betrothed unto a younge knight;
+  All the discourse therof you did see;
+  But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Within a gorgeous palace most brave,
+  Adorned with all the cost they cold have,
+  This wedding was kept most sumptuouslìe,
+  And all for the credit of pretty Bessee.
+
+  All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete
+  Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete;
+  Partridge, and plover, and venison most free,
+  Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.
+
+  This marriage through England was spread by report,
+  Soe that a great number therto did resort
+  Of nobles and gentles in every degree;
+  And all for the fame of prettye Bessee.
+
+  To church then went this gallant younge knight;
+  His bride followed after, an angell most bright,
+  With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was scene
+  As went with sweete Bessy of Bednall-greene.
+
+  This marryage being solempnized then,
+  With musicke performed by the skilfullest men,
+  The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde,
+  Each one admiring the beautiful bryde.
+
+  Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done,
+  To talke, and to reason a number begunn:
+  They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright,
+  And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.
+
+  Then spake the nobles, "Much marveil have wee,
+  This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see."
+  My lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base,
+  He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.
+
+  "The prayse of a woman in question to bringe
+  Before her own face, were a flattering thinge;
+  But wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they,
+  "Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye."
+
+  They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke,
+  But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke;
+  A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee,
+  And now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee.
+
+  He had a daintye lute under his arme,
+  He touched the strings, which made such a charme,
+  Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee,
+  Ile sing you a song of pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that his lute he twanged straightway,
+  And thereon begann most sweetlye to play;
+  And after that lessons were playd two or three,
+  He strayn'd out this song most delicatelìe.
+
+  "A poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene,
+  Who for her fairenesse might well be a queene:
+  A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee,
+  And many one called her pretty Bessee.
+
+  "Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land,
+  But begged for a penny all day with his hand;
+  And yett to her marriage he gave thousands three,
+  And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.
+
+  "And if any one here her birth doe disdaine,
+  Her father is ready, with might and with maine,
+  To proove shee is come of noble degree:
+  Therfore never flout att prettye Bessee."
+
+  With that the lords and the companye round
+  With harty laughter were readye to swound;
+  Att last said the lords, Full well wee may see,
+  The bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee.
+
+  On this the bride all blushing did rise,
+  The pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes,
+  O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee,
+  That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee.
+
+  If this be thy father, the nobles did say,
+  Well may he be proud of this happy day;
+  Yett by his countenance well may wee see,
+  His birth and his fortune did never agree:
+
+  And therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray,
+  (and looke that the truth thou to us doe say)
+  Thy birth and thy parentage, whatt itt may bee;
+  For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee.
+
+  "Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one,
+  One song more to sing, and then I have done;
+  And if that itt may not winn good report,
+  Then doe not give me a GROAT for my sport.
+
+  "Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shal bee;
+  Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee,
+  Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase,
+  Now loste and forgotten are hee and his race.
+
+  "When the barons in armes did King Henrye oppose,
+  Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose;
+  A leader of courage undaunted was hee,
+  And oft-times he made their enemyes flee.
+
+  "At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine
+  The barons were routed, and Montford was slaine;
+  Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee,
+  Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee!
+
+  "Along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde,
+  His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his side,
+  Was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight!
+  A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight.
+
+  "Among the dead bodyes all lifeless he laye,
+  Till evening drewe on of the following daye,
+  When by a yong ladye discovered was hee;
+  And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee!
+
+  "A barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte
+  To search for her father, who fell in the fight,
+  And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he laye,
+  Was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye.
+
+  "In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine,
+  While he throughe the realme was beleeved to be slaine
+  At lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee,
+  And made him glad father of prettye Bessee.
+
+  "And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye,
+  We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye;
+  Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee:
+  All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee.
+
+  "And here have we lived in fortunes despite,
+  Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte:
+  Full forty winters thus have I beene
+  A silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene.
+
+  "And here, noble lordes, is ended the song
+  Of one, that once to your own ranke did belong:
+  And thus have you learned a secrette from mee,
+  That ne'er had been knowne, but for prettye Bessee."
+
+  Now when the faire companye everye one,
+  Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne,
+  They all were amazed, as well they might bee,
+  Both at the blinde beggar, and pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that the faire bride they all did embrace,
+  Saying, Sure thou art come of an honourable race,
+  Thy father likewise is of noble degree,
+  And thou art well worthy a lady to bee.
+
+  Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte,
+  A bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte,
+  In joy and felicitie long lived hee,
+  All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.
+
+
+[Illustration: Hand dropping gold coins]
+
+
+
+
+
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+
+
+  Thomas lay on the Huntlie bank,
+    A spying ferlies wi his eee,
+  And he did spy a lady gay,
+    Come riding down by the lang lee.
+
+  Her steed was o the dapple grey,
+    And at its mane there hung bells nine;
+  He thought he heard that lady say,
+    "They gowden bells sall a' be thine."
+
+  Her mantle was o velvet green,
+    And a' set round wi jewels fine;
+  Her hawk and hounds were at her side,
+    And her bugle-horn wi gowd did shine.
+
+  Thomas took aff baith cloak and cap,
+    For to salute this gay lady:
+  "O save ye, save ye, fair Queen o Heavn,
+    And ay weel met ye save and see!"
+
+  "I'm no the Queen o Heavn, Thomas;
+    I never carried my head sae hee;
+  For I am but a lady gay,
+    Come out to hunt in my follee.
+
+  "Now gin ye kiss my mouth, Thomas,
+    Ye mauna miss my fair bodee;
+  Then ye may een gang hame and tell
+    That ye've lain wi a gay ladee."
+
+  "O gin I loe a lady fair,
+    Nae ill tales o her wad I tell,
+  And it's wi thee I fain wad gae,
+    Tho it were een to heavn or hell."
+
+  "Then harp and carp, Thomas," she said,
+    "Then harp and carp alang wi me;
+  But it will be seven years and a day
+    Till ye win back to yere ain countrie."
+
+  The lady rade, True Thomas ran,
+    Until they cam to a water wan;
+  O it was night, and nae delight,
+    And Thomas wade aboon the knee.
+
+  It was dark night, and nae starn-light,
+    And on they waded lang days three,
+  And they heard the roaring o a flood,
+    And Thomas a waefou man was he.
+
+  Then they rade on, and farther on,
+    Untill they came to a garden green;
+  To pu an apple he put up his hand,
+    For the lack o food he was like to tyne.
+
+  "O haud yere hand, Thomas," she cried,
+    "And let that green flourishing be;
+  For it's the very fruit o hell,
+    Beguiles baith man and woman o yere countrie.
+
+  "But look afore ye, True Thomas,
+    And I shall show ye ferlies three;
+  Yon is the gate leads to our land,
+    Where thou and I sae soon shall be.
+
+  "And dinna ye see yon road, Thomas,
+    That lies out-owr yon lilly lee?
+  Weel is the man yon gate may gang,
+    For it leads him straight to the heavens hie.
+
+  "But do you see yon road, Thomas,
+    That lies out-owr yon frosty fell?
+  Ill is the man yon gate may gang,
+    For it leads him straight to the pit o hell.
+
+  "Now when ye come to our court, Thomas,
+    See that a weel-learned man ye be;
+  For they will ask ye, one and all,
+    But ye maun answer nane but me.
+
+  "And when nae answer they obtain,
+    Then will they come and question me,
+  And I will answer them again
+    That I gat yere aith at the Eildon tree.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  "Ilka seven years, Thomas,
+    We pay our teindings unto hell,
+  And ye're sae leesome and sae strang
+    That I fear, Thomas, it will be yeresell."
+
+
+
+
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+
+
+  In London city was Bicham born,
+    He longd strange countries for to see,
+  But he was taen by a savage Moor,
+    Who handld him right cruely.
+
+  For thro his shoulder he put a bore,
+    An thro the bore has pitten a tree,
+  An he's gard him draw the carts o wine,
+    Where horse and oxen had wont to be.
+
+  He's casten [him] in a dungeon deep,
+    Where he coud neither hear nor see;
+  He's shut him up in a prison strong,
+    An he's handld him right cruely.
+
+  O this Moor he had but ae daughter,
+    I wot her name was Shusy Pye;
+  She's doen her to the prison-house,
+    And she's calld Young Bicham one word
+
+  "O hae ye ony lands or rents,
+    Or citys in your ain country,
+  Coud free you out of prison strong,
+    An coud mantain a lady free?"
+
+  "O London city is my own,
+    An other citys twa or three,
+  Coud loose me out o prison strong,
+    An coud mantain a lady free."
+
+  O she has bribed her father's men
+    Wi meikle goud and white money,
+  She's gotten the key o the prison doors,
+    An she has set Young Bicham free.
+
+  She's g'in him a loaf o good white bread,
+    But an a flask o Spanish wine,
+  An she bad him mind on the ladie's love
+    That sae kindly freed him out o pine.
+
+  "Go set your foot on good ship-board,
+    An haste you back to your ain country,
+  An before that seven years has an end,
+    Come back again, love, and marry me."
+
+  It was long or seven years had an end
+    She longd fu sair her love to see;
+  She's set her foot on good ship-board,
+    And turnd her back on her ain country.
+
+  She's saild up, so has she doun,
+    Till she came to the other side;
+  She's landed at Young Bicham's gates,
+    An I hop this day she sal be his bride.
+
+  "Is this Young Bicham's gates?" says she,
+    "Or is that noble prince within?"
+  "He's up the stairs wi his bonny bride,
+    An monny a lord and lady wi him."
+
+  "O has he taen a bonny bride,
+    An has he clean forgotten me!"
+  An sighing said that gay lady,
+    I wish I were in my ain country!
+
+  But she's pitten her han in her pocket,
+    An gin the porter guineas three;
+  Says, Take ye that, ye proud porter,
+    An bid the bridegroom speak to me.
+
+  O whan the porter came up the stair,
+    He's fa'n low down upon his knee:
+  "Won up, won up, ye proud porter,
+    An what makes a' this courtesy?"
+
+  "O I've been porter at your gates
+    This mair nor seven years an three,
+  But there is a lady at them now
+    The like of whom I never did see.
+
+  "For on every finger she has a ring,
+    An on the mid-finger she has three,
+  An there's a meikle goud aboon her brow
+    As woud buy an earldome o lan to me."
+
+  Then up it started Young Bicham,
+    An sware so loud by Our Lady,
+  "It can be nane but Shusy Pye,
+    That has come oer the sea to me."
+
+  O quickly ran he down the stair,
+    O fifteen steps he has made but three;
+  He's tane his bonny love in his arms,
+    An a wot he kissd her tenderly.
+
+  "O hae you tane a bonny bride?
+    An hae you quite forsaken me?
+  An hae ye quite forgotten her
+    That gae you life an liberty? "
+  She's lookit oer her left shoulder
+    To hide the tears stood in her ee;
+  "Now fare thee well, Young Bicham," she says,
+    "I'll strive to think nae mair on thee."
+
+  "Take back your daughter, madam," he says,
+    "An a double dowry I'll gi her wi;
+  For I maun marry my first true love,
+    That's done and suffered so much for me."
+
+  He's take his bonny love by the ban,
+    And led her to yon fountain stane;
+  He's changd her name frae Shusy Pye,
+    An he's cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+
+
+  The fifteenth day of July,
+    With glistering spear and shield,
+  A famous fight in Flanders
+    Was foughten in the field:
+  The most couragious officers
+    Were English captains three;
+  But the bravest man in battel
+    Was brave Lord Willoughbèy.
+
+  The next was Captain Norris,
+    A valiant man was hee:
+  The other Captain Turner,
+    From field would never flee.
+  With fifteen hundred fighting men,
+    Alas! there were no more,
+  They fought with fourteen thousand then,
+    Upon the bloody shore.
+
+  Stand to it, noble pikemen,
+    And look you round about:
+  And shoot you right, you bow-men,
+    And we will keep them out:
+  You musquet and callìver men,
+    Do you prove true to me,
+  I'le be the formost man in fight,
+    Says brave Lord Willoughbèy.
+
+  And then the bloody enemy
+    They fiercely did assail,
+  And fought it out most furiously,
+    Not doubting to prevail:
+  The wounded men on both sides fell
+    Most pitious for to see,
+  Yet nothing could the courage quell
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbèy.
+
+  For seven hours to all mens view
+    This fight endured sore,
+  Until our men so feeble grew
+    That they could fight no more;
+  And then upon dead horses
+    Full savourly they eat,
+  And drank the puddle water,
+    They could no better get.
+
+  When they had fed so freely,
+    They kneeled on the ground,
+  And praised God devoutly
+    For the favour they had found;
+  And beating up their colours,
+    The fight they did renew,
+  And turning tow'rds the Spaniard,
+    A thousand more they slew.
+
+  The sharp steel-pointed arrows,
+    And bullets thick did fly,
+  Then did our valiant soldiers
+    Charge on most furiously;
+  Which made the Spaniards waver,
+    They thought it best to flee,
+  They fear'd the stout behaviour
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  Then quoth the Spanish general,
+    Come let us march away,
+  I fear we shall be spoiled all
+    If here we longer stay;
+  For yonder comes Lord Willoughbey
+    With courage fierce and fell,
+  He will not give one inch of way
+    For all the devils in hell.
+
+  And then the fearful enemy
+    Was quickly put to flight,
+  Our men persued couragiously,
+    And caught their forces quite;
+  But at last they gave a shout,
+    Which ecchoed through the sky,
+  God, and St. George for England!
+    The conquerors did cry.
+
+  This news was brought to England
+    With all the speed might be,
+  And soon our gracious queen was told
+    Of this same victory.
+  O this is brave Lord Willoughbey,
+    My love that ever won,
+  Of all the lords of honour
+    'Tis he great deeds hath done.
+
+  To the souldiers that were maimed,
+    And wounded in the fray,
+  The queen allowed a pension
+    Of fifteen pence a day;
+  And from all costs and charges
+    She quit and set them free:
+  And this she did all for the sake
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  Then courage, noble Englishmen,
+    And never be dismaid;
+  If that we be but one to ten,
+    We will not be afraid
+  To fight with foraign enemies,
+    And set our nation free.
+  And thus I end the bloody bout
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+
+
+  Will you hear a Spanish lady,
+    How shed wooed an English man?
+  Garments gay and rich as may be
+    Decked with jewels she had on.
+  Of a comely countenance and grace was she,
+  And by birth and parentage of high degree.
+
+  As his prisoner there he kept her,
+    In his hands her life did lye!
+  Cupid's bands did tye them faster
+    By the liking of an eye.
+  In his courteous company was all her joy,
+  To favour him in any thing she was not coy.
+
+  But at last there came commandment
+    For to set the ladies free,
+  With their jewels still adorned,
+    None to do them injury.
+  Then said this lady mild, Full woe is me;
+  O let me still sustain this kind captivity!
+
+  Gallant captain, shew some pity
+    To a ladye in distresse;
+  Leave me not within this city,
+    For to dye in heavinesse:
+  Thou hast this present day my body free,
+  But my heart in prison still remains with thee.
+
+  "How should'st thou, fair lady, love me,
+    Whom thou knowest thy country's foe?
+  Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee:
+    Serpents lie where flowers grow."
+  All the harme I wishe to thee, most courteous knight,
+  God grant the same upon my head may fully light.
+  Blessed be the time and season,
+    That you came on Spanish ground;
+  If our foes you may be termed,
+    Gentle foes we have you found:
+  With our city, you have won our hearts eche one,
+  Then to your country bear away, that is your owne.
+
+  "Rest you still, most gallant lady;
+    Rest you still, and weep no more;
+  Of fair lovers there is plenty,
+    Spain doth yield a wonderous store."
+  Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find,
+  But Englishmen through all the world are counted kind.
+
+  Leave me not unto a Spaniard,
+    You alone enjoy my heart:
+  I am lovely, young, and tender,
+    Love is likewise my desert:
+  Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest;
+  The wife of every Englishman is counted blest.
+  "It wold be a shame, fair lady,
+    For to bear a woman hence;
+  English soldiers never carry
+    Any such without offence."
+  I'll quickly change myself, if it be so,
+  And like a page He follow thee, where'er thou go.
+
+  "I have neither gold nor silver
+    To maintain thee in this case,
+  And to travel is great charges,
+    As you know in every place."
+  My chains and jewels every one shal be thy own,
+  And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.
+
+  "On the seas are many dangers,
+    Many storms do there arise,
+  Which wil be to ladies dreadful,
+    And force tears from watery eyes."
+  Well in troth I shall endure extremity,
+  For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.
+
+  "Courteous ladye, leave this fancy,
+    Here comes all that breeds the strife;
+  I in England have already
+    A sweet woman to my wife:
+  I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain,
+  Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain."
+
+  O how happy is that woman
+    That enjoys so true a friend!
+  Many happy days God send her;
+    Of my suit I make an end:
+  On my knees I pardon crave for my offence,
+  Which did from love and true affection first commence.
+
+  Commend me to thy lovely lady,
+    Bear to her this chain of gold;
+  And these bracelets for a token;
+    Grieving that I was so bold:
+  All my jewels in like sort take thou with thee,
+  For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.
+
+  I will spend my days in prayer,
+    Love and all her laws defye;
+  In a nunnery will I shroud mee
+    Far from any companye:
+  But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this,
+  To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.
+
+  Thus farewell, most gallant captain!
+    Farewell too my heart's content!
+  Count not Spanish ladies wanton,
+    Though to thee my love was bent:
+  Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee!
+   "The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladie."
+
+
+
+
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  It was a friar of orders gray
+   Walkt forth to tell his beades;
+  And he met with a lady faire,
+    Clad in a pilgrime's weedes.
+
+  Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,
+    I pray thee tell to me,
+  If ever at yon holy shrine
+    My true love thou didst see.
+
+  And how should I know your true love
+    From many another one?
+  O by his cockle hat, and staff,
+    And by his sandal shoone.
+
+  But chiefly by his face and mien,
+    That were so fair to view;
+  His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,
+    And eyne of lovely blue.
+
+  O lady, he is dead and gone!
+    Lady, he's dead and gone!
+  And at his head a green grass turfe,
+    And at his heels a stone.
+
+  Within these holy cloysters long
+    He languisht, and he dyed,
+  Lamenting of a ladyes love,
+    And 'playning of her pride.
+
+  Here bore him barefac'd on his bier
+    Six proper youths and tall,
+  And many a tear bedew'd his grave
+    Within yon kirk-yard wall.
+
+  And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!
+    And art thou dead and gone!
+  And didst thou die for love of me!
+    Break, cruel heart of stone!
+
+  O weep not, lady, weep not soe;
+    Some ghostly comfort seek:
+  Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
+    Ne teares bedew thy cheek.
+
+  O do not, do not, holy friar,
+    My sorrow now reprove;
+  For I have lost the sweetest youth,
+    That e'er wan ladyes love.
+
+  And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse,
+    I'll evermore weep and sigh;
+  For thee I only wisht to live,
+    For thee I wish to dye.
+
+  Weep no more, lady, weep no more,
+    Thy sorrowe is in vaine:
+  For violets pluckt the sweetest showers
+    Will ne'er make grow againe.
+
+  Our joys as winged dreams doe flye,
+    Why then should sorrow last?
+  Since grief but aggravates thy losse,
+    Grieve not for what is past.
+
+  O say not soe, thou holy friar;
+    I pray thee, say not soe:
+  For since my true-love dyed for mee,
+    'Tis meet my tears should flow.
+
+  And will he ne'er come again?
+    Will he ne'er come again?
+  Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,
+    For ever to remain.
+
+  His cheek was redder than the rose;
+    The comliest youth was he!
+  But he is dead and laid in his grave:
+    Alas, and woe is me!
+
+  Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,
+    Men were deceivers ever:
+  One foot on sea and one on land,
+    To one thing constant never.
+
+  Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,
+    And left thee sad and heavy;
+  For young men ever were fickle found,
+    Since summer trees were leafy.
+
+  Now say not so, thou holy friar,
+    I pray thee say not soe;
+  My love he had the truest heart:
+    O he was ever true!
+
+  And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth,
+    And didst thou dye for mee?
+  Then farewell home; for ever-more
+    A pilgrim I will bee.
+
+  But first upon my true-loves grave
+    My weary limbs I'll lay,
+  And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,
+    That wraps his breathless clay.
+
+  Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile
+    Beneath this cloyster wall:
+  See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,
+    And drizzly rain doth fall.
+
+  O stay me not, thou holy friar;
+    O stay me not, I pray;
+  No drizzly rain that falls on me,
+    Can wash my fault away.
+
+  Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
+    And dry those pearly tears;
+  For see beneath this gown of gray
+    Thy own true-love appears.
+
+  Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love,
+    These holy weeds I sought;
+  And here amid these lonely walls
+    To end my days I thought.
+
+  But haply for my year of grace
+    Is not yet past away,
+  Might I still hope to win thy love,
+    No longer would I stay.
+
+  Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
+    Once more unto my heart;
+  For since I have found thee, lovely youth,
+    We never more will part.
+
+
+
+
+CLERK COLVILL
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Clerk Colvill and his lusty dame
+    Were walking in the garden green;
+  The belt around her stately waist
+    Cost Clerk Colvill of pounds fifteen.
+
+  "O promise me now, Clerk Colvill,
+    Or it will cost ye muckle strife,
+  Ride never by the wells of Slane,
+    If ye wad live and brook your life."
+
+  "Now speak nae mair, my lusty dame,
+    Now speak nae mair of that to me;
+  Did I neer see a fair woman,
+    But I wad sin with her body?"
+
+  He's taen leave o his gay lady,
+    Nought minding what his lady said,
+  And he's rode by the wells of Slane,
+    Where washing was a bonny maid.
+
+  "Wash on, wash on, my bonny maid,
+    That wash sae clean your sark of silk;"
+  "And weel fa you, fair gentleman,
+    Your body whiter than the milk."
+
+      *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Then loud, loud cry'd the Clerk Colvill,
+    "O my head it pains me sair;"
+  "Then take, then take," the maiden said,
+    "And frae my sark you'll cut a gare."
+
+  Then she's gied him a little bane-knife,
+    And frae her sark he cut a share;
+  She's ty'd it round his whey-white face,
+    But ay his head it aked mair.
+
+  Then louder cry'd the Clerk Colville,
+    "O sairer, sairer akes my head;"
+  "And sairer, sairer ever will,"
+    The maiden crys, "till you be dead."
+
+  Out then he drew his shining blade,
+    Thinking to stick her where she stood,
+  But she was vanished to a fish,
+    And swam far off, a fair mermaid.
+
+  "O mother, mother, braid my hair;
+    My lusty lady, make my bed;
+  O brother, take my sword and spear,
+    For I have seen the false mermaid."
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+SIR ALDINGAR
+
+
+  Our king he kept a false stewàrde,
+    Sir Aldingar they him call;
+  A falser steward than he was one,
+    Servde not in bower nor hall.
+
+  He wolde have layne by our comelye queene,
+    Her deere worshippe to betraye:
+  Our queene she was a good womàn,
+    And evermore said him naye.
+
+  Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind,
+    With her hee was never content,
+  Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse,
+    In a fyer to have her brent.
+
+  There came a lazar to the kings gate,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame:
+  He tooke the lazar upon his backe,
+    Him on the queenes bed has layne.
+
+  "Lye still, lazar, whereas thou lyest,
+    Looke thou goe not hence away;
+  He make thee a whole man and a sound
+    In two howers of the day."
+
+  Then went him forth Sir Aldingar,
+    And hyed him to our king:
+  "If I might have grace, as I have space,
+    Sad tydings I could bring."
+
+  Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar,
+    Saye on the soothe to mee.
+  "Our queene hath chosen a new new love,
+    And shee will have none of thee.
+
+  "If shee had chosen a right good knight,
+    The lesse had beene her shame;
+  But she hath chose her a lazar man,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame."
+
+  If this be true, thou Aldingar,
+    The tyding thou tellest to me,
+  Then will I make thee a rich rich knight,
+    Rich both of golde and fee.
+
+  But if it be false, Sir Aldingar,
+    As God nowe grant it bee!
+  Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood,
+    Shall hang on the gallows tree.
+
+  He brought our king to the queenes chambèr,
+    And opend to him the dore.
+  A lodlye love, King Harry says,
+    For our queene dame Elinore!
+
+  If thou were a man, as thou art none,
+    Here on my sword thoust dye;
+  But a payre of new gallowes shall be built,
+    And there shalt thou hang on hye.
+
+  Forth then hyed our king, I wysse,
+    And an angry man was hee;
+  And soone he found Queen Elinore,
+    That bride so bright of blee.
+
+  Now God you save, our queene, madame,
+    And Christ you save and see;
+  Heere you have chosen a newe newe love,
+    And you will have none of mee.
+
+  If you had chosen a right good knight,
+    The lesse had been your shame;
+  But you have chose you a lazar man,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame.
+
+  Therfore a fyer there shalt be built,
+    And brent all shalt thou bee.--
+  Now out alacke! said our comly queene,
+    Sir Aldingar's false to mee.
+
+  Now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene,
+    My heart with griefe will brast.
+  I had thought swevens had never been true;
+    I have proved them true at last.
+
+  I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve,
+    In my bed whereas I laye.
+  I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast
+    Had carryed my crowne awaye;
+
+  My gorgett and my kirtle of golde,
+    And all my faire head-geere:
+  And he wold worrye me with his tush
+    And to his nest y-beare:
+
+  Saving there came a little 'gray' hawke,
+    A merlin him they call,
+  Which untill the grounde did strike the grype,
+    That dead he downe did fall.
+
+  Giffe I were a man, as now I am none,
+    A battell wold I prove,
+  To fight with that traitor Aldingar,
+    Att him I cast my glove.
+
+  But seeing Ime able noe battell to make,
+    My liege, grant me a knight
+  To fight with that traitor Sir Aldingar,
+    To maintaine me in my right.
+
+  "Now forty dayes I will give thee
+    To seeke thee a knight therein:
+  If thou find not a knight in forty dayes
+    Thy bodye it must brenn."
+
+  Then shee sent east, and shee sent west,
+    By north and south bedeene:
+  But never a champion colde she find,
+    Wolde fight with that knight soe keene.
+
+  Now twenty dayes were spent and gone,
+    Noe helpe there might be had;
+  Many a teare shed our comelye queene
+    And aye her hart was sad.
+
+  Then came one of the queenes damsèlles,
+    And knelt upon her knee,
+  "Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame,
+    I trust yet helpe may be:
+
+  And here I will make mine avowe,
+    And with the same me binde;
+  That never will I return to thee,
+    Till I some helpe may finde."
+
+  Then forth she rode on a faire palfràye
+    Oer hill and dale about:
+  But never a champion colde she finde,
+    Wolde fighte with that knight so stout.
+
+  And nowe the daye drewe on a pace,
+    When our good queene must dye;
+  All woe-begone was that faire damsèlle,
+    When she found no helpe was nye.
+
+  All woe-begone was that faire damsèlle,
+    And the salt teares fell from her eye:
+  When lo! as she rode by a rivers side,
+    She met with a tinye boye.
+
+  A tinye boye she mette, God wot,
+    All clad in mantle of golde;
+  He seemed noe more in mans likenèsse,
+    Then a childe of four yeere old.
+
+  Why grieve you, damselle faire, he sayd,
+    And what doth cause you moane?
+  The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke,
+    But fast she pricked on.
+
+  Yet turne againe, thou faire damsèlle
+    And greete thy queene from mee:
+  When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest,
+    Nowe helpe enoughe may bee.
+
+  Bid her remember what she dreamt
+    In her bedd, wheras shee laye;
+  How when the grype and grimly beast
+    Wolde have carried her crowne awaye,
+
+  Even then there came the little gray hawke,
+    And saved her from his clawes:
+  Then bidd the queene be merry at hart,
+    For heaven will fende her cause.
+
+  Back then rode that faire damsèlle,
+    And her hart it lept for glee:
+  And when she told her gracious dame
+    A gladd woman then was shee:
+
+  But when the appointed day was come,
+    No helpe appeared nye:
+  Then woeful, woeful was her hart,
+    And the teares stood in her eye.
+
+  And nowe a fyer was built of wood;
+    And a stake was made of tree;
+  And now Queene Elinor forth was led,
+    A sorrowful sight to see.
+
+  Three times the herault he waved his hand,
+    And three times spake on hye:
+  Giff any good knight will fende this dame,
+    Come forth, or shee must dye.
+
+  No knight stood forth, no knight there came,
+    No helpe appeared nye:
+  And now the fyer was lighted up,
+    Queen Elinor she must dye.
+
+  And now the fyer was lighted up,
+    As hot as hot might bee;
+  When riding upon a little white steed,
+    The tinye boy they see.
+
+  "Away with that stake, away with those brands,
+    And loose our comelye queene:
+  I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar,
+    And prove him a traitor keene."
+
+  Forthe then stood Sir Aldingar,
+    But when he saw the chylde,
+  He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe,
+    And weened he had been beguylde.
+
+  "Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar,
+    And eyther fighte or flee;
+  I trust that I shall avenge the wronge,
+    Thoughe I am so small to see."
+
+  The boy pulld forth a well good sworde
+    So gilt it dazzled the ee;
+  The first stroke stricken at Aldingar,
+    Smote off his leggs by the knee.
+
+  "Stand up, stand up, thou false traitòr,
+    And fight upon thy feete,
+  For and thou thrive, as thou begin'st,
+    Of height wee shall be meete."
+
+  A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingàr,
+    While I am a man alive.
+  A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingàr,
+    Me for to houzle and shrive.
+
+  I wolde have laine by our comlie queene,
+    Bot shee wolde never consent;
+  Then I thought to betraye her unto our kinge
+    In a fyer to have her brent.
+
+  There came a lazar to the kings gates,
+    A lazar both blind and lame:
+  I tooke the lazar upon my backe,
+    And on her bedd had him layne.
+
+  Then ranne I to our comlye king,
+    These tidings sore to tell.
+  But ever alacke! sayes Aldingar,
+    Falsing never doth well.
+
+  Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame,
+    The short time I must live.
+  "Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar,
+    As freely I forgive."
+
+  Here take thy queene, our king Harryè,
+    And love her as thy life,
+  For never had a king in Christentye.
+    A truer and fairer wife.
+
+  King Henrye ran to claspe his queene,
+    And loosed her full sone:
+  Then turned to look for the tinye boye;
+    --The boye was vanisht and gone.
+
+  But first he had touched the lazar man,
+    And stroakt him with his hand:
+  The lazar under the gallowes tree
+    All whole and sounde did stand.
+
+  The lazar under the gallowes tree
+    Was comelye, straight and tall;
+  King Henrye made him his head stewàrde
+    To wayte withinn his hall.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+EDOM O' GORDON
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  It fell about the Martinmas,
+    Quhen the wind blew shril and cauld,
+  Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,
+    We maun draw till a hauld.
+
+  And quhat a hauld sall we draw till,
+    My mirry men and me?
+  We wul gae to the house o' the Rodes,
+    To see that fair ladie.
+
+  The lady stude on her castle wa',
+    Beheld baith dale and down:
+  There she was ware of a host of men
+    Cum ryding towards the toun.
+
+  O see ze nat, my mirry men a'?
+    O see za nat quhat I see?
+  Methinks I see a host of men:
+    I marveil quha they be.
+
+  She weend it had been hir luvely lord,
+    As he cam ryding hame;
+  It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon,
+    Quha reckt nae sin nor shame.
+
+  She had nae sooner buskit hirsel,
+    And putten on hir goun,
+  But Edom o' Gordon and his men
+    Were round about the toun.
+
+  They had nae sooner supper sett,
+    Nae sooner said the grace,
+  But Edom o' Gordon and his men
+    Were light about the place.
+
+  The lady ran up to hir towir head,
+    Sa fast as she could hie,
+  To see if by hir fair speechès
+    She could wi' him agree.
+
+  But quhan he see this lady saif,
+    And hir yates all locked fast,
+  He fell into a rage of wrath,
+    And his look was all aghast.
+
+  Cum doun to me, ze lady gay,
+    Cum doun, cum doun to me:
+  This night sall ye lig within mine armes,
+    To-morrow my bride sall be.
+
+  I winnae cum doun ze fals Gordòn,
+    I winnae cum doun to thee;
+  I winna forsake my ain dear lord,
+    That is sae far frae me.
+
+  Give owre zour house, ze lady fair,
+    Give owre zour house to me,
+  Or I sall brenn yoursel therein,
+    Bot and zour babies three.
+
+  I winnae give owre, ze false Gordòn,
+    To nae sik traitor as zee;
+  And if ze brenn my ain dear babes,
+    My lord sall make ze drie.
+
+  But reach my pistoll, Glaud my man,
+    And charge ze weil my gun:
+  For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher,
+    My babes we been undone.
+
+  She stude upon hir castle wa',
+    And let twa bullets flee:
+  She mist that bluidy butchers hart,
+    And only raz'd his knee.
+
+  Set fire to the house, quo' fals Gordòn,
+    All wood wi' dule and ire:
+  Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid,
+    As ze bren in the fire.
+
+  Wae worth, wae worth ze, Jock my man,
+    I paid ze weil zour fee;
+  Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane,
+    Lets in the reek to me?
+
+  And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man,
+    I paid ze weil zour hire;
+  Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane,
+    To me lets in the fire?
+
+  Ze paid me weil my hire, lady;
+    Ze paid me weil my fee:
+  But now I'm Edom o' Gordons man,
+    Maun either doe or die.
+
+  O than bespaik hir little son,
+    Sate on the nurses knee:
+  Sayes, Mither deare, gi' owre this house,
+    For the reek it smithers me.
+
+  I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe,
+    Say wald I a' my fee,
+  For ane blast o' the western wind,
+    To blaw the reek frae thee.
+
+  O then bespaik hir dochter dear,
+    She was baith jimp and sma;
+  O row me in a pair o' sheits,
+    And tow me owre the wa.
+
+  They rowd hir in a pair o' sheits,
+    And towd hir owre the wa:
+  But on the point of Gordons spear
+    She gat a deadly fa.
+
+  O bonnie bonnie was hir mouth,
+    And cherry were her cheiks,
+  And clear clear was hir zellow hair,
+    Whereon the reid bluid dreips.
+
+  Then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre,
+    O gin hir face was wan!
+  He sayd, Ze are the first that eir
+    I wisht alive again.
+
+  He turnd hir owre and owre againe,
+    O gin hir skin was whyte!
+  I might ha spared that bonnie face
+    To hae been sum mans delyte.
+
+  Busk and boun, my merry men a',
+    For ill dooms I doe guess;
+  I cannae luik in that bonnie face,
+    As it lyes on the grass.
+
+  Thame, luiks to freits, my master deir,
+    Then freits wil follow thame:
+  Let neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon
+    Was daunted by a dame.
+
+  But quhen the ladye see the fire
+    Cum flaming owre hir head,
+  She wept and kist her children twain,
+    Sayd, Bairns, we been but dead.
+
+  The Gordon then his bougill blew,
+    And said, Awa', awa';
+  This house o' the Rodes is a' in flame,
+    I hauld it time to ga'.
+
+  O then bespyed hir ain dear lord,
+    As hee cam owr the lee;
+  He sied his castle all in blaze     Sa far as he could see.
+
+  Then sair, O sair his mind misgave,
+    And all his hart was wae;
+  Put on, put on, my wighty men,
+    So fast as ze can gae.
+
+  Put on, put on, my wighty men,
+    Sa fast as ze can drie;
+  For he that is hindmost of the thrang
+    Sall neir get guid o' me.
+
+  Than sum they rade, and sum they rin,
+    Fou fast out-owr the bent;
+  But eir the foremost could get up,
+    Baith lady and babes were brent.
+
+  He wrang his hands, he rent his hair,
+    And wept in teenefu' muid:
+  O traitors, for this cruel deid
+    Ze sall weep tiers o' bluid.
+
+  And after the Gordon he is gane,
+    Sa fast as he might drie.
+  And soon i' the Gordon's foul hartis bluid
+    He's wroken his dear ladie.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+CHEVY CHASE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  God prosper long our noble king,
+    Our lives and safetyes all;
+  A woefull hunting once there did
+    In Chevy-Chace befall;
+
+  To drive the deere with hound and horne,
+    Erle Percy took his way,
+  The child may rue that is unborne,
+    The hunting of that day.
+
+  The stout Erle of Northumberland
+    A vow to God did make,
+  His pleasure in the Scottish woods
+    Three summers days to take;
+
+  The cheefest harts in Chevy-chace
+    To kill and beare away.
+  These tydings to Erle Douglas came,
+    In Scotland where he lay:
+
+  Who sent Erle Percy present word,
+    He wold prevent his sport.
+  The English erle, not fearing that,
+    Did to the woods resort
+
+  With fifteen hundred bow-men bold;
+    All chosen men of might,
+  Who knew full well in time of neede
+    To ayme their shafts arright.
+
+  The galland greyhounds swiftly ran,
+    To chase the fallow deere:
+  On munday they began to hunt,
+    Ere day-light did appeare;
+
+  And long before high noone they had
+    An hundred fat buckes slaine;
+  Then having dined, the drovyers went
+    To rouze the deare againe.
+
+  The bow-men mustered on the hills,
+    Well able to endure;
+  Theire backsides all, with speciall care,
+    That day were guarded sure.
+
+  The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,
+    The nimble deere to take,
+  That with their cryes the hills and dales
+    An eccho shrill did make.
+
+  Lord Percy to the quarry went,
+    To view the slaughter'd deere;
+  Quoth he, Erle Douglas promised
+    This day to meet me heere:
+
+  But if I thought he wold not come,
+    Noe longer wold I stay.
+  With that, a brave younge gentleman
+    Thus to the Erle did say:
+
+  Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,
+    His men in armour bright;
+  Full twenty hundred Scottish speres
+    All marching in our sight;
+
+  All men of pleasant Tivydale,
+    Fast by the river Tweede:
+  O cease your sports, Erle Percy said,
+    And take your bowes with speede:
+
+  And now with me, my countrymen,
+    Your courage forth advance;
+  For there was never champion yett,
+    In Scotland nor in France,
+
+  That ever did on horsebacke come,
+    But if my hap it were,
+  I durst encounter man for man,
+    With him to break a spere.
+
+  Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede,
+    Most like a baron bolde,
+  Rode foremost of his company,
+    Whose armour shone like gold.
+
+  Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee,
+    That hunt soe boldly heere,
+  That, without my consent, doe chase
+    And kill my fallow-deere.
+
+  The first man that did answer make
+    Was noble Percy hee;
+  Who sayd, Wee list not to declare,
+    Nor shew whose men wee bee:
+  Yet wee will spend our deerest blood,
+    Thy cheefest harts to slay.
+  Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe,
+    And thus in rage did say,
+
+  Ere thus I will out-braved bee,
+    One of us two shall dye:
+  I know thee well, an erle thou art;
+    Lord Percy, soe am I.
+
+  But trust me, Percy, pittye it were,
+    And great offence to kill
+  Any of these our guiltlesse men,
+    For they have done no ill.
+
+  Let thou and I the battell trye,
+    And set our men aside.
+  Accurst bee he, Erle Percy sayd,
+    By whome this is denyed.
+
+  Then stept a gallant squier forth,
+    Witherington was his name,
+  Who said, I wold not have it told
+    To Henry our king for shame,
+
+  That ere my captaine fought on foote,
+    And I stood looking on.
+  You be two erles, sayd Witherington,
+    And I a squier alone:
+
+  He doe the best that doe I may,
+    While I have power to stand:
+  While I have power to weeld my sword
+    He fight with hart and hand.
+
+  Our English archers bent their bowes,
+    Their harts were good and trew;
+  Att the first flight of arrowes sent,
+    Full four-score Scots they slew.
+
+  Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent,
+    As Chieftain stout and good.
+  As valiant Captain, all unmov'd
+    The shock he firmly stood.
+
+  His host he parted had in three,
+    As Leader ware and try'd,
+  And soon his spearmen on their foes
+    Bare down on every side.
+
+  To drive the deere with hound and horne,
+    Douglas bade on the bent
+  Two captaines moved with mickle might
+    Their speres to shivers went.
+
+  Throughout the English archery
+    They dealt full many a wound:
+  But still our valiant Englishmen
+    All firmly kept their ground:
+
+  And throwing strait their bows away,
+    They grasp'd their swords so bright:
+  And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,
+    On shields and helmets light.
+
+  They closed full fast on every side,
+    Noe slackness there was found:
+  And many a gallant gentleman
+    Lay gasping on the ground.
+
+  O Christ! it was a griefe to see;
+    And likewise for to heare,
+  The cries of men lying in their gore,
+    And scattered here and there.
+
+  At last these two stout erles did meet,
+    Like captaines of great might:
+  Like lyons wood, they layd on lode,
+    And made a cruell fight:
+
+  They fought untill they both did sweat,
+    With swords of tempered steele;
+  Untill the blood, like drops of rain,
+    They tricklin downe did feele.
+
+  Yeeld thee, Lord Percy, Douglas sayd
+    In faith I will thee bringe,
+  Where thou shalt high advanced bee
+    By James our Scottish king:
+
+  Thy ransome I will freely give,
+    And this report of thee,
+  Thou art the most couragious knight,
+    That ever I did see.
+
+  Noe, Douglas, quoth Erle Percy then,
+    Thy proffer I doe scorne;
+  I will not yeelde to any Scott,
+    That ever yett was borne.
+
+  With that, there came an arrow keene
+    Out of an English bow,
+  Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart,
+    A deepe and deadlye blow:
+
+  Who never spake more words than these,
+    Fight on, my merry men all;
+  For why, my life is at an end;
+    Lord Percy sees my fall.
+
+  Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke
+    The dead man by the hand;
+  And said, Erle Douglas, for thy life
+    Wold I had lost my land.
+
+  O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed
+    With sorrow for thy sake;
+  For sure, a more redoubted knight
+    Mischance cold never take.
+
+  A knight amongst the Scotts there was
+    Which saw Erle Douglas dye,
+  Who streight in wrath did vow revenge
+    Upon the Lord Percye:
+
+  Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd,
+    Who, with a spere most bright,
+  Well-mounted on a gallant steed,
+    Ran fiercely through the fight;
+
+  And past the English archers all,
+    Without all dread or feare;
+  And through Earl Percyes body then
+    He thrust his hatefull spere;
+
+  With such a vehement force and might
+    He did his body gore,
+  The staff ran through the other side
+    A large cloth-yard and more.
+
+  So thus did both these nobles dye,
+    Whose courage none could staine:
+  An English archer then perceiv'd
+    The noble erle was slaine;
+
+  He had a bow bent in his hand,
+    Made of a trusty tree;
+  An arrow of a cloth-yard long
+    Up to the head drew hee:
+
+  Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye,
+    So right the shaft he sett,
+  The grey goose-winge that was thereon,
+    In his harts bloode was wette.
+
+  This fight did last from breake of day,
+    Till setting of the sun;
+  For when they rang the evening-bell,
+    The battel scarce was done.
+
+  With stout Erle Percy there was slaine
+    Sir John of Egerton,
+  Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,
+    Sir James that bold barròn:
+
+  And with Sir George and stout Sir James,
+    Both knights of good account,
+  Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine,
+    Whose prowesse did surmount.
+
+  For Witherington needs must I wayle,
+    As one in doleful dumpes;
+  For when his leggs were smitten off,
+    He fought upon his stumpes.
+
+  And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine
+    Sir Hugh Montgomerye,
+  Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld
+    One foote wold never flee.
+
+  Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too,
+    His sisters sonne was hee;
+  Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd,
+    Yet saved cold not bee.
+
+  And the Lord Maxwell in like case
+    Did with Erle Douglas dye:
+  Of twenty hundred Scottish speres,
+    Scarce fifty-five did flye.
+
+  Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
+    Went home but fifty-three;
+  The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace,
+    Under the greene woode tree.
+
+  Next day did many widowes come,
+    Their husbands to bewayle;
+  They washt their wounds in brinish teares,
+    But all wold not prevayle.
+
+  Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore,
+    They bare with them away:
+  They kist them dead a thousand times,
+    Ere they were cladd in clay.
+
+  The news was brought to Eddenborrow,
+    Where Scottlands king did raigne,
+  That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye
+    Was with an arrow slaine:
+
+  O heavy newes, King James did say,
+    Scotland may witnesse bee,
+  I have not any captaine more
+    Of such account as hee.
+
+  Like tydings to King Henry came,
+    Within as short a space,
+  That Percy of Northumberland
+    Was slaine in Chevy-Chace:
+
+  Now God be with him, said our king,
+    Sith it will noe better bee;
+  I trust I have, within my realme,
+    Five hundred as good as hee:
+
+  Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say,
+    But I will vengeance take:
+  I'll be revenged on them all,
+    For brave Erle Percyes sake.
+
+  This vow full well the king perform'd
+    After, at Humbledowne;
+  In one day, fifty knights were slayne,
+    With lords of great renowne:
+
+  And of the rest, of small acount,
+    Did many thousands dye:
+  Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase,
+    Made by the Erle Percy.
+
+  God save our king, and bless this land
+    With plenty, joy, and peace;
+  And grant henceforth, that foule debate
+    'Twixt noblemen may cease.
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+
+
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+  When Arthur first in court began,
+    And was approved king,
+   By force of armes great victorys wanne,
+  And conquest home did bring,
+
+  Then into England straight he came
+    With fifty good and able
+  Knights, that resorted unto him,
+    And were of his round table:
+
+  And he had justs and turnaments,
+    Whereto were many prest,
+  Wherein some knights did far excell
+    And eke surmount the rest.
+
+  But one Sir Lancelot du Lake,
+    Who was approved well,
+  He for his deeds and feats of armes
+    All others did excell.
+
+  When he had rested him a while,
+    In play, and game, and sportt,
+  He said he wold goe prove himselfe
+    In some adventurous sort.
+
+  He armed rode in a forrest wide,
+    And met a damsell faire,
+  Who told him of adventures great,
+    Whereto he gave great eare.
+
+  Such wold I find, quoth Lancelott:
+    For that cause came I hither.
+  Thou seemest, quoth shee, a knight full good,
+    And I will bring thee thither.
+
+  Wheras a mighty knight doth dwell,
+    That now is of great fame:
+  Therefore tell me what wight thou art,
+    And what may be thy name.
+
+  "My name is Lancelot du Lake."
+    Quoth she, it likes me than:
+  Here dwelles a knight who never was
+    Yet matcht with any man:
+
+  Who has in prison threescore knights
+    And four, that he did wound;
+  Knights of King Arthurs court they be,
+    And of his table round.
+
+  She brought him to a river side,
+    And also to a tree,
+  Whereon a copper bason hung,
+    And many shields to see.
+
+  He struck soe hard, the bason broke;
+    And Tarquin soon he spyed:
+  Who drove a horse before him fast,
+    Whereon a knight lay tyed.
+
+  Sir knight, then sayd Sir Lancelett,
+    Bring me that horse-load hither,
+  And lay him downe, and let him rest;
+    Weel try our force together:
+
+  For, as I understand, thou hast,
+    So far as thou art able,
+  Done great despite and shame unto
+    The knights of the Round Table.
+
+  If thou be of the Table Round,
+    Quoth Tarquin speedilye,
+  Both thee and all thy fellowship
+    I utterly defye.
+
+  That's over much, quoth Lancelott tho,
+    Defend thee by and by.
+  They sett their speares unto their steeds,
+    And eache att other flie.
+
+  They coucht theire speares (their horses ran,
+    As though there had beene thunder),
+  And strucke them each immidst their shields,
+    Wherewith they broke in sunder.
+
+  Their horsses backes brake under them,
+    The knights were both astound:
+  To avoyd their horsses they made haste
+    And light upon the ground.
+
+  They tooke them to their shields full fast,
+    Their swords they drewe out than,
+  With mighty strokes most eagerlye
+    Each at the other ran.
+
+  They wounded were, and bled full sore,
+    They both for breath did stand,
+  And leaning on their swords awhile,
+    Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand,
+
+  And tell to me what I shall aske.
+    Say on, quoth Lancelot tho.
+  Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight
+    That ever I did know:
+
+  And like a knight, that I did hate:
+    Soe that thou be not hee,
+  I will deliver all the rest,
+    And eke accord with thee.
+
+  That is well said, quoth Lancelott;
+    But sith it must be soe,
+  What knight is that thou hatest thus
+    I pray thee to me show.
+
+  His name is Lancelot du Lake,
+    He slew my brother deere;
+  Him I suspect of all the rest:
+    I would I had him here.
+
+  Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne,
+    I am Lancelot du Lake,
+  Now knight of Arthurs Table Round;
+    King Hauds son of Schuwake;
+
+  And I desire thee to do thy worst.
+    Ho, ho, quoth Tarquin tho'
+  One of us two shall ende our lives
+    Before that we do go.
+
+  If thou be Lancelot du Lake,
+    Then welcome shalt thou bee:
+  Wherfore see thou thyself defend,
+    For now defye I thee.
+
+  They buckled them together so,
+    Like unto wild boares rashing;
+  And with their swords and shields they ran
+    At one another slashing:
+
+  The ground besprinkled was with blood:
+    Tarquin began to yield;
+  For he gave backe for wearinesse,
+    And lowe did beare his shield.
+
+  This soone Sir Lancelot espyde,
+    He leapt upon him then,
+  He pull'd him downe upon his knee,
+    And rushing off his helm,
+
+  Forthwith he strucke his necke in two,
+    And, when he had soe done,
+  From prison threescore knights and four
+    Delivered everye one.
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+GIL MORRICE
+
+
+  Gil Morrice was an erles son,
+     His name it waxed wide;
+    It was nae for his great riches,
+  Nor zet his mickle pride;
+  Bot it was for a lady gay,
+    That livd on Carron side.
+
+  Quhair sail I get a bonny boy,
+    That will win hose and shoen;
+  That will gae to Lord Barnards ha',
+    And bid his lady cum?
+  And ze maun rin my errand, Willie;
+    And ze may rin wi' pride;
+  Quhen other boys gae on their foot
+    On horse-back ze sail ride.
+
+  O no! Oh no! my master dear!
+    I dare nae for my life;
+  I'll no gae to the bauld baròns,
+    For to triest furth his wife.
+  My bird Willie, my boy Willie;
+    My dear Willie, he sayd:
+  How can ze strive against the stream?
+    For I sall be obeyd.
+
+  Bot, O my master dear! he cryd,
+    In grene wod ze're zour lain;
+  Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede,
+    For fear ze should be tain.
+  Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',
+    Bid hir cum here wi speid:
+  If ze refuse my heigh command,
+    Ill gar zour body bleid.
+
+  Gae bid hir take this gay mantel,
+    'Tis a' gowd hot the hem;
+  Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,
+    And bring nane bot hir lain:
+  And there it is a silken sarke,
+    Hir ain hand sewd the sleive;
+  And bid hir cum to Gill Morice,
+    Speir nae bauld barons leave.
+
+  Yes, I will gae zour black errand,
+    Though it be to zour cost;
+  Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd,
+    In it ze sail find frost.
+  The baron he is a man of might,
+    He neir could bide to taunt,
+  As ze will see before its nicht,
+    How sma' ze hae to vaunt.
+
+  And sen I maun zour errand rin
+    Sae sair against my will,
+  I'se mak a vow and keip it trow,
+    It sall be done for ill.
+  And quhen he came to broken brigue,
+    He bent his bow and swam;
+  And quhen he came to grass growing,
+    Set down his feet and ran.
+
+  And quhen he came to Barnards ha',
+    Would neither chap nor ca':
+  Bot set his bent bow to his breist,
+    And lichtly lap the wa'.
+  He wauld nae tell the man his errand,
+    Though he stude at the gait;
+  Bot straiht into the ha' he cam,
+    Quhair they were set at meit.
+
+  Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame!
+    My message winna waite;
+  Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod
+    Before that it be late.
+  Ze're bidden tak this gay mantèl,
+    Tis a' gowd bot the hem:
+  Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode,
+    Ev'n by your sel alane.
+
+  And there it is, a silken sarke,
+    Your ain hand sewd the sleive;
+  Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice:
+    Speir nae bauld barons leave.
+  The lady stamped wi' hir foot,
+    And winked wi' hir ee;
+  Bot a' that she coud say or do,
+    Forbidden he wad nae bee.
+
+  Its surely to my bow'r-womàn;
+    It neir could be to me.
+  I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
+    I trow that ze be she.
+  Then up and spack the wylie nurse,
+    (The bairn upon hir knee)
+  If it be cum frae Gill Morice,
+    It's deir welcum to mee.
+
+  Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse,
+    Sae loud I heird zee lee;
+  I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
+    I trow ze be nae shee.
+  Then up and spack the bauld baròn,
+    An angry man was hee;
+  He's tain the table wi' his foot,
+    Sae has he wi' his knee;
+  Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish
+    In flinders he gard flee.
+
+  Gae bring a robe of zour clidìng,
+    That hings upon the pin;
+  And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,
+    And speik wi' zour lemmàn.
+  O bide at hame, now Lord Barnàrd,
+    I warde ze bide at hame;
+  Neir wyte a man for violence,
+    That neir wate ze wi' nane.
+
+  Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode,
+    He whistled and he sang:
+  O what mean a' the folk comìng,
+    My mother tarries lang.
+  His hair was like the threeds of gold,
+    Drawne frae Minerva's loome:
+  His lipps like roses drapping dew,
+    His breath was a' perfume.
+
+  His brow was like the mountain snae
+    Gilt by the morning beam:
+  His cheeks like living roses glow:
+    His een like azure stream.  The boy was clad in robes of grene,
+    Sweete as the infant spring:
+  And like the mavis on the bush,
+    He gart the vallies ring.
+
+  The baron came to the grene wode,
+    Wi' mickle dule and care,
+  And there he first spied Gill Morice
+    Kameing his zellow hair:
+  That sweetly wavd around his face,
+    That face beyond compare:
+  He sang sae sweet it might dispel
+    A' rage but fell despair.
+
+  Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morìce,
+    My lady loed thee weel,
+  The fairest part of my bodie
+    Is blacker than thy heel.
+  Zet neir the less now, Gill Morìce,
+    For a' thy great beautiè,
+  Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;
+    That head sall gae wi' me.
+
+  Now he has drawn his trusty brand,
+    And slaited on the strae;
+  And thro' Gill Morice' fair body
+    He's gar cauld iron gae.
+  And he has tain Gill Morice's head
+    And set it on a speir;
+  The meanest man in a' his train
+    Has gotten that head to bear.
+
+  And he has tain Gill Morice up,
+    Laid him across his steid,
+  And brocht him to his painted bowr,
+    And laid him on a bed.
+  The lady sat on castil wa',
+    Beheld baith dale and doun;
+  And there she saw Gill Morice' head
+    Cum trailing to the toun.
+
+  Far better I loe that bluidy head,
+    Both and that zellow hair,
+  Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands,
+    As they lig here and thair.
+  And she has tain her Gill Morice,
+    And kissd baith mouth and chin:
+  I was once as fow of Gill Morice,
+    As the hip is o' the stean.
+
+  I got ze in my father's house,
+    Wi' mickle sin and shame;
+  I brocht thee up in gude grene wode,
+    Under the heavy rain.
+  Oft have I by thy cradle sitten,
+    And fondly seen thee sleip;
+  But now I gae about thy grave,
+    The saut tears for to weip.
+
+  And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,
+    And syne his bluidy chin:
+  O better I loe my Gill Morice
+    Than a' my kith and kin!
+  Away, away, ze ill womàn,
+    And an il deith mait ze dee:
+  Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son,
+    He'd neir bin slain for mee.
+
+  Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard!
+    Obraid me not for shame!
+  Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart!
+    And put me out o' pain.
+  Since nothing bot Gill Morice head
+    Thy jelous rage could quell,
+  Let that saim hand now tak hir life,
+    That neir to thee did ill.
+
+  To me nae after days nor nichts
+    Will eir be saft or kind;
+  I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,
+    And greet till I am blind.
+  Enouch of blood by me's been spilt,
+    Seek not zour death frae mee;
+  I rather lourd it had been my sel
+    Than eather him or thee.
+
+  With waefo wae I hear zour plaint;
+    Sair, sair I rew the deid,
+  That eir this cursed hand of mine
+    Had gard his body bleid.
+  Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame,
+    Ze neir can heal the wound;
+  Ze see his head upon the speir,
+    His heart's blude on the ground.
+
+  I curse the hand that did the deid,
+    The heart that thocht the ill;
+  The feet that bore me wi' sik speid,
+    The comely zouth to kill.
+  I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,
+    As gin he were mine ain;
+  I'll neir forget the dreiry day
+    On which the zouth was slain.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+The CHILD of ELLE
+
+
+  On yondre hill a castle standes
+    With walles and towres bedight,
+   And yonder lives the Child of Elle,
+  A younge and comely knighte.
+
+  The Child of Elle to his garden went,
+    And stood at his garden pale,
+  Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page
+    Come trippinge downe the dale.
+
+  The Child of Elle he hyed him thence,
+    Y-wis he stoode not stille,
+  And soone he mette faire Emmelines page
+    Come climbinge up the hille.
+
+  Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page,
+    Now Christe thee save and see!
+  Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye,
+    And what may thy tydinges bee?
+
+  My ladye shee is all woe-begone,
+    And the teares they falle from her eyne;
+  And aye she laments the deadlye feude
+    Betweene her house and thine.
+
+  And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe
+    Bedewde with many a teare,
+  And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her,
+    Who loved thee so deare.
+
+  And here shee sends thee a ring of golde
+    The last boone thou mayst have,
+  And biddes thee weare it for her sake,
+    Whan she is layde in grave.
+
+  For, ah! her gentle heart is broke,
+    And in grave soone must shee bee,
+  Sith her father hath chose her a new new love,
+    And forbidde her to think of thee.
+
+  Her father hath brought her a carlish knight,
+    Sir John of the north countràye,
+  And within three dayes she must him wedde,
+    Or he vowes he will her slaye.
+
+  Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
+    And greet thy ladye from mee,
+  And telle her that I her owne true love
+    Will dye, or sette her free.
+
+  Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
+    And let thy fair ladye know
+  This night will I bee at her bowre-windòwe,
+    Betide me weale or woe.
+
+  The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne,
+    He neither stint ne stayd
+  Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre,
+    Whan kneeling downe he sayd,
+
+  O ladye, I've been with thine own true love,
+    And he greets thee well by mee;
+  This night will hee bee at thy bowre-windòwe,
+    And dye or sett thee free.
+
+  Nowe daye was gone, and night was come,
+    And all were fast asleepe,
+  All save the Ladye Emmeline,
+    Who sate in her bowre to weepe:
+
+  And soone shee heard her true loves voice
+    Lowe whispering at the walle,
+  Awake, awake, my deare ladyè,
+    Tis I thy true love call.
+
+  Awake, awake, my ladye deare,
+    Come, mount this faire palfràye:
+  This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe
+    He carrye thee hence awaye.
+
+  Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight,
+    Nowe nay, this may not bee;
+  For aye shold I tint my maiden fame,
+    If alone I should wend with thee.
+
+  O ladye, thou with a knighte so true
+    Mayst safelye wend alone,
+  To my ladye mother I will thee bringe,
+    Where marriage shall make us one.
+
+  "My father he is a baron bolde,
+    Of lynage proude and hye;
+  And what would he saye if his daughtèr
+    Awaye with a knight should fly
+
+  "Ah! well I wot, he never would rest,
+    Nor his meate should doe him no goode,
+  Until he hath slayne thee, Child of Elle,
+    And scene thy deare hearts bloode."
+
+  O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,
+    And a little space him fro,
+  I would not care for thy cruel fathèr,
+    Nor the worst that he could doe.
+
+  O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,
+    And once without this walle,
+  I would not care for thy cruel fathèr
+    Nor the worst that might befalle.
+
+  Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept,
+    And aye her heart was woe:
+  At length he seized her lilly-white hand,
+    And downe the ladder he drewe:
+
+  And thrice he clasped her to his breste,
+    And kist her tenderlìe:
+  The teares that fell from her fair eyes
+    Ranne like the fountayne free.
+
+  Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle,
+    And her on a fair palfràye,
+  And slung his bugle about his necke,
+    And roundlye they rode awaye.
+
+  All this beheard her owne damsèlle,
+    In her bed whereas shee ley,
+  Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this,
+    Soe I shall have golde and fee.
+
+  Awake, awake, thou baron bolde!
+    Awake, my noble dame!
+  Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle
+    To doe the deede of shame.
+
+  The baron he woke, the baron he rose,
+    And called his merrye men all:
+  "And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte,
+    Thy ladye is carried to thrall."
+
+  Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile,
+    A mile forth of the towne,
+  When she was aware of her fathers men
+    Come galloping over the downe:
+
+  And foremost came the carlish knight,
+    Sir John of the north countràye:
+  "Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitòure,
+    Nor carry that ladye awaye.
+
+  "For she is come of hye lineàge,
+    And was of a ladye borne,
+  And ill it beseems thee, a false churl's sonne,
+    To carrye her hence to scorne."
+
+  Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight,
+    Nowe thou doest lye of mee;
+  A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore,
+    Soe never did none by thee
+
+  But light nowe downe, my ladye faire,
+    Light downe, and hold my steed,
+  While I and this discourteous knighte
+    Doe trye this arduous deede.
+
+  But light now downe, my deare ladyè,
+    Light downe, and hold my horse;
+  While I and this discourteous knight
+    Doe trye our valour's force.
+
+  Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept,
+    And aye her heart was woe,
+  While twixt her love and the carlish knight
+    Past many a baleful blowe.
+
+  The Child of Elle hee fought so well,
+    As his weapon he waved amaine,
+  That soone he had slaine the carlish knight,
+    And layd him upon the plaine.
+
+  And nowe the baron and all his men
+    Full fast approached nye:
+  Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe
+    Twere nowe no boote to flye.
+
+  Her lover he put his horne to his mouth,
+    And blew both loud and shrill,
+  And soone he saw his owne merry men
+    Come ryding over the hill.
+
+  "Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baròn,
+    I pray thee hold thy hand,
+  Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts
+    Fast knit in true love's band.
+
+  Thy daughter I have dearly loved
+    Full long and many a day;
+  But with such love as holy kirke
+    Hath freelye sayd wee may.
+
+  O give consent, shee may be mine,
+    And blesse a faithfull paire:
+  My lands and livings are not small,
+    My house and lineage faire:
+
+  My mother she was an earl's daughtèr,
+    And a noble knyght my sire--
+  The baron he frowned, and turn'd away
+    With mickle dole and ire.
+
+  Fair Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept,
+    And did all tremblinge stand:
+  At lengthe she sprang upon her knee,
+    And held his lifted hand.
+
+  Pardon, my lorde and father deare,
+    This faire yong knyght and mee:
+  Trust me, but for the carlish knyght,
+    I never had fled from thee.
+
+  Oft have you called your Emmeline
+    Your darling and your joye;
+  O let not then your harsh resolves
+    Your Emmeline destroye.
+
+  The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke,
+    And turned his heade asyde
+  To whipe awaye the starting teare
+    He proudly strave to hyde.
+
+  In deepe revolving thought he stoode,
+    And mused a little space;
+  Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounde,
+    With many a fond embrace.
+
+  Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd,
+    And gave her lillye white hand;
+  Here take my deare and only child,
+    And with her half my land:
+
+  Thy father once mine honour wrongde
+    In dayes of youthful pride;
+  Do thou the injurye repayre
+    In fondnesse for thy bride.
+
+  And as thou love her, and hold her deare,
+    Heaven prosper thee and thine:
+  And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee,
+    My lovelye Emmeline.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+
+CHILD WATERS
+
+
+  Childe Waters in his stable stoode
+    And stroakt his milke white steede:
+  To him a fayre yonge ladye came
+    As ever ware womans weede.
+
+  Sayes, Christ you save, good Childe Waters;
+    Sayes, Christ you save, and see:
+  My girdle of gold that was too longe,
+    Is now too short for mee.
+
+  And all is with one chyld of yours,
+    I feel sturre att my side:
+  My gowne of greene it is too straighte;
+    Before, it was too wide.
+
+  If the child be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd,
+    Be mine, as you tell mee;
+  Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    Take them your owne to bee.
+
+  If the childe be mine, fair Ellen, he sayd,
+    Be mine, as you doe sweare;
+  Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    And make that child your heyre.
+
+  Shee saies, I had rather have one kisse,
+    Child Waters, of thy mouth;
+  Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    That laye by north and south.
+
+  And I had rather have one twinkling,
+    Childe Waters, of thine ee;
+  Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    To take them mine owne to bee.
+
+  To morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde
+    Farr into the north countrie;
+  The fairest lady that I can find,
+    Ellen, must goe with mee.
+
+  'Thoughe I am not that lady fayre,
+    'Yet let me go with thee:'
+  And ever I pray you, Child Watèrs,
+    Your foot-page let me bee.
+
+  If you will my foot-page be, Ellen,
+    As you doe tell to mee;
+  Then you must cut your gowne of greene,
+    An inch above your knee:
+
+  Soe must you doe your yellow lockes,
+    An inch above your ee:
+  You must tell no man what is my name;
+    My foot-page then you shall bee.
+
+  Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode,
+    Ran barefoote by his side;
+  Yett was he never soe courteous a knighte,
+    To say, Ellen, will you ryde?
+
+  Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode,
+    Ran barefoote thorow the broome;
+  Yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte,
+    To say, put on your shoone.
+
+  Ride softlye, shee sayd, O Childe Waters,
+    Why doe you ryde soe fast?
+  The childe, which is no mans but thine,
+    My bodye itt will brast.
+
+  Hee sayth, seeth thou yonder water, Ellen,
+    That flows from bank to brimme?--
+  I trust to God, O Child Waters,
+    You never will see mee swimme.
+
+  But when shee came to the waters side,
+    Shee sayled to the chinne:
+  Except the Lord of heaven be my speed,
+    Now must I learne to swimme.
+
+  The salt waters bare up her clothes;
+    Our Ladye bare upp her chinne:
+  Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord,
+    To see faire Ellen swimme.
+
+  And when shee over the water was,
+    Shee then came to his knee:
+  He said, Come hither, thou fair Ellèn,
+    Loe yonder what I see.
+
+  Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?
+    Of redd gold shines the yate;
+  Of twenty foure faire ladyes there,
+    The fairest is my mate.
+
+  Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?
+    Of redd gold shines the towre:
+  There are twenty four fair ladyes there,
+    The fairest is my paramoure.
+
+  I see the hall now, Child Waters,
+    Of redd golde shines the yate:
+  God give you good now of yourselfe,
+    And of your worthye mate.
+
+  I see the hall now, Child Waters,
+    Of redd gold shines the towre:
+  God give you good now of yourselfe,
+    And of your paramoure.
+
+  There twenty four fayre ladyes were
+    A playing att the ball:
+  And Ellen the fairest ladye there,
+    Must bring his steed to the stall.
+
+  There twenty four fayre ladyes were
+    A playinge at the chesse;
+  And Ellen the fayrest ladye there,
+    Must bring his horse to gresse.
+
+  And then bespake Childe Waters sister,
+    These were the wordes said shee:
+  You have the prettyest foot-page, brother,
+    That ever I saw with mine ee.
+
+  But that his bellye it is soe bigg,
+    His girdle goes wonderous hie:
+  And let him, I pray you, Childe Watères,
+    Goe into the chamber with mee.
+
+  It is not fit for a little foot-page,
+    That has run throughe mosse and myre,
+  To go into the chamber with any ladye,
+    That weares soe riche attyre.
+
+  It is more meete for a litle foot-page,
+    That has run throughe mosse and myre,
+  To take his supper upon his knee,
+    And sitt downe by the kitchen fyer.
+
+  But when they had supped every one,
+    To bedd they tooke theyr waye:
+  He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page,
+    And hearken what I saye.
+
+  Goe thee downe into yonder towne,
+    And low into the street;
+  The fayrest ladye that thou can finde,
+
+    Hyer her in mine armes to sleepe,
+  And take her up in thine armes twaine,
+    For filinge of her feete.
+
+  Ellen is gone into the towne,
+    And low into the streete:
+  The fairest ladye that she cold find,
+    Shee hyred in his armes to sleepe;
+  And tooke her up in her armes twayne,
+    For filing of her feete.
+
+  I pray you nowe, good Child Watèrs,
+    Let mee lye at your bedds feete:
+  For there is noe place about this house,
+    Where I may 'saye a sleepe.
+
+  'He gave her leave, and faire Ellèn
+    'Down at his beds feet laye:'
+  This done the nighte drove on apace,
+    And when it was neare the daye,
+
+  Hee sayd, Rise up, my litle foot-page,
+    Give my steede corne and haye;
+  And soe doe thou the good black oats,
+    To carry mee better awaye.
+
+  Up then rose the faire Ellèn,
+    And gave his steede corne and hay:
+  And soe shee did the good blacke oats,
+    To carry him the better away.
+
+  Shee leaned her backe to the manger side,
+    And grievouslye did groane:
+  Shee leaned her backe to the manger side,
+    And there shee made her moane.
+
+  And that beheard his mother deere,
+    Shee heard her there monand.
+  Shee sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Watèrs,
+    I think thee a cursed man.
+
+  For in thy stable is a ghost,
+    That grievouslye doth grone:
+  Or else some woman laboures of childe,
+    She is soe woe-begone.
+
+  Up then rose Childe Waters soon,
+    And did on his shirte of silke;
+  And then he put on his other clothes,
+    On his body as white as milke.
+
+  And when he came to the stable dore,
+    Full still there he did stand,
+  That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellèn
+    Howe shee made her monànd.
+
+  Shee sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deere child,
+    Lullabye, dere child, dere;
+  I wold thy father were a king,
+    Thy mother layd on a biere.
+
+  Peace now, he said, good faire Ellèn,
+    Be of good cheere, I praye;
+  And the bridal and the churching both
+    Shall bee upon one day.
+
+
+
+
+[Image]
+
+KING EDWARD IV & THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH
+
+
+  In summer time, when leaves grow greene,
+     And blossoms bedecke the tree,
+  King Edward wolde a hunting ryde,
+    Some pastime for to see.
+
+  With hawke and hounde he made him bowne,
+    With horne, and eke with bowe;
+  To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye,
+    With all his lordes a rowe.
+
+  And he had ridden ore dale and downe
+    By eight of clocke in the day,
+  When he was ware of a bold tannèr,
+    Come ryding along the waye.
+
+  A fayre russet coat the tanner had on
+    Fast buttoned under his chin,
+  And under him a good cow-hide,
+    And a marc of four shilling.
+
+  Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all,
+    Under the grene wood spraye;
+  And I will wend to yonder fellowe,
+    To weet what he will saye.
+
+  God speede, God speede thee, said our king.
+    Thou art welcome, Sir, sayd hee.
+  "The readyest waye to Drayton Basset
+    I praye thee to shew to mee."
+
+  "To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe,
+    Fro the place where thou dost stand?
+  The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto,
+    Turne in upon thy right hand."
+
+  That is an unreadye waye, sayd our king,
+    Thou doest but jest, I see;
+  Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye,
+    And I pray thee wend with mee.
+
+  Away with a vengeance! quoth the tanner:
+    I hold thee out of thy witt:
+  All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare,
+    And I am fasting yett.
+
+  "Go with me downe to Drayton Basset,
+    No daynties we will spare;
+  All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best,
+    And I will paye thy fare."
+
+  Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde,
+    Thou payest no fare of mine:
+  I trowe I've more nobles in my purse,
+    Than thou hast pence in thine.
+
+  God give thee joy of them, sayd the king,
+    And send them well to priefe.
+  The tanner wolde faine have beene away,
+    For he weende he had beene a thiefe.
+
+  What art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellowe,
+    Of thee I am in great feare,
+  For the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back,
+    Might beseeme a lord to weare.
+
+  I never stole them, quoth our king,
+    I tell you, Sir, by the roode.
+  "Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth,
+    And standest in midds of thy goode."
+
+  What tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge,
+    As you ryde farre and neare?
+  "I heare no tydinges, Sir, by the masse,
+    But that cowe-hides are deare."
+
+  "Cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those?
+     I marvell what they bee?"
+  What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd;
+    I carry one under mee.
+
+  What craftsman art thou, said the king,
+    I pray thee tell me trowe.
+  "I am a barker, Sir, by my trade;
+    Nowe tell me what art thou?"
+
+  I am a poor courtier, Sir, quoth he,
+    That am forth of service worne;
+  And faine I wolde thy prentise bee,
+    Thy cunninge for to learne.
+
+  Marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde,
+    That thou my prentise were:
+  Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne
+    By fortye shilling a yere.
+
+  Yet one thinge wolde I, sayd our king,
+    If thou wilt not seeme strange:
+  Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare,
+    Yet with thee I fain wold change.
+
+  "Why if with me thou faine wilt change,
+    As change full well maye wee,
+  By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe
+    I will have some boot of thee."
+
+  That were against reason, sayd the king,
+    I sweare, so mote I thee:
+  My horse is better than thy mare,
+    And that thou well mayst see.
+
+  "Yea, Sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild,
+    And softly she will fare:
+  Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss;
+    Aye skipping here and theare."
+
+  What boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd;
+    Now tell me in this stound.
+  "Noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye,
+    But a noble in gold so round.
+
+  "Here's twentye groates of white moneye,
+    Sith thou will have it of mee."
+  I would have sworne now, quoth the tanner,
+    Thou hadst not had one pennie.
+
+  But since we two have made a change,
+    A change we must abide,
+  Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare,
+    Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.
+
+  I will not have it, sayd the kynge,
+    I sweare, so mought I thee;
+  Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare,
+    If thou woldst give it to mee.
+
+  The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide,
+    That of the cow was bilt;
+  And threwe it upon the king's sadelle,
+    That was soe fayrelye gilte.
+  "Now help me up, thou fine fellowe,
+    'Tis time that I were gone:
+  When I come home to Gyllian my wife,
+    Sheel say I am a gentilmon."
+
+  The king he tooke him up by the legge;
+    The tanner a f----- lett fall.
+  Nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the king,
+    Thy courtesye is but small.
+
+  When the tanner he was in the kinges sadèlle,
+    And his foote in the stirrup was;
+  He marvelled greatlye in his minde,
+    Whether it were golde or brass.
+
+  But when the steede saw the cows taile wagge,
+    And eke the blacke cowe-horne;
+  He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne,
+    As the devill had him borne.
+
+  The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat,
+    And held by the pummil fast:
+  At length the tanner came tumbling downe;
+    His necke he had well-nye brast.
+
+  Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd,
+    With mee he shall not byde.
+  "My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe,
+    But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide.
+
+  Yet if againe thou faine woldst change,
+    As change full well may wee,
+  By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tannèr,
+    I will have some boote of thee."
+
+  What boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd,
+    Nowe tell me in this stounde.
+  "Noe pence nor halfpence, Sir, by my faye,
+    But I will have twentye pound."
+
+  "Here's twentye groates out of my purse;
+    And twentye I have of thine:
+  And I have one more, which we will spend
+    Together at the wine."
+
+  The king set a bugle home to his mouthe,
+    And blewe both loude and shrille:
+  And soone came lords, and soone came knights,
+    Fast ryding over the hille.
+
+  Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde,
+    That ever I sawe this daye!
+  Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes     Will beare my
+cowe-hide away.
+
+  They are no thieves, the king replyde,
+    I sweare, soe mote I thee:
+  But they are the lords of the north countrèy,
+    Here come to hunt with mee.
+
+  And soone before our king they came,
+    And knelt downe on the grounde:
+  Then might the tanner have beene awaye,
+    He had lever than twentye pounde.
+
+  A coller, a coller, here: sayd the king,
+    A coller he loud gan crye:
+  Then woulde he lever than twentye pound,
+    He had not beene so nighe.
+
+  A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd,
+    I trowe it will breed sorrowe:
+  After a coller cometh a halter,
+    I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrowe.
+
+  Be not afraid, tanner, said our king;
+    I tell thee, so mought I thee,
+  Lo here I make thee the best esquire
+    That is in the North countrie.
+
+  For Plumpton-parke I will give thee,
+    With tenements faire beside:
+  'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,
+    To maintaine thy good cowe-hide.
+
+  Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde,
+    For the favour thou hast me showne;
+  If ever thou comest to merry Tamwòrth,
+    Neates leather shall clout thy shoen.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+
+
+  The king sits in Dumferling toune,
+    Drinking the blude-reid wine:
+  O quhar will I get guid sailòr,
+    To sail this schip of mine.
+
+  Up and spak an eldern knicht,
+    Sat at the kings richt kne:
+  Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailòr,
+    That sails upon the se.
+
+  The king has written a braid letter,
+    And signd it wi' his hand;
+  And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
+    Was walking on the sand.
+
+  The first line that Sir Patrick red,
+    A loud lauch lauched he:
+  The next line that Sir Patrick red,
+    The teir blinded his ee.
+
+  O quha is this has don this deid,
+    This ill deid don to me;
+  To send me out this time o' the zeir,
+    To sail upon the se.
+
+  Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,
+    Our guid schip sails the morne,
+  O say na sae, my master deir,
+    For I feir a deadlie storme.
+
+  Late late yestreen I saw the new moone
+    Wi' the auld moone in hir arme;
+  And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
+    That we will com to harme.
+
+  O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
+    To weet their cork-heild schoone;
+  Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
+    Thair hats they swam aboone.
+
+  O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit
+    Wi' thair fans into their hand,
+  Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens
+    Cum sailing to the land.
+
+  O lang, lang, may the ladies stand
+    Wi' thair gold kems in their hair,
+  Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
+    For they'll se thame na mair.
+
+  Have owre, have owre to Aberdour,
+    It's fiftie fadom deip:
+  And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens,
+    Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.
+
+
+
+
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+
+
+  It was intill a pleasant time,
+    Upon a simmer's day,
+  The noble Earl of Mar's daughter
+  Went forth to sport and play.
+
+  As thus she did amuse hersell,
+    Below a green aik tree,
+  There she saw a sprightly doo
+    Set on a tower sae hie.
+
+  "O cow-me-doo, my love sae true,
+    If ye'll come down to me,
+  Ye 'se hae a cage o guid red gowd
+    Instead o simple tree:
+
+  "I'll put growd hingers roun your cage,
+    And siller roun your wa;
+  I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird
+    As ony o them a'."
+
+  But she hadnae these words well spoke,
+    Nor yet these words well said,
+  Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower
+    And lighted on her head.
+
+  Then she has brought this pretty bird
+    Hame to her bowers and ba,
+  And made him shine as fair a bird
+    As ony o them a'.
+
+  When day was gane, and night was come,
+    About the evening tide,
+  This lady spied a sprightly youth
+    Stand straight up by her side.
+
+  "From whence came ye, young man?" she said;
+    "That does surprise me sair;
+  My door was bolted right secure,
+    What way hae ye come here?"
+
+  "O had your tongue, ye lady fair,
+    Lat a' your folly be;
+  Mind ye not on your turtle-doo
+    Last day ye brought wi thee?"
+
+  "O tell me mair, young man," she said,
+    "This does surprise me now;
+  What country hae ye come frae?
+    What pedigree are you?"
+
+  "My mither lives on foreign isles,
+    She has nae mair but me;
+  She is a queen o wealth and state,
+    And birth and high degree.
+
+  "Likewise well skilld in magic spells,
+    As ye may plainly see,
+  And she transformd me to yon shape,
+    To charm such maids as thee.
+
+  "I am a doo the live-lang day,
+    A sprightly youth at night;
+  This aye gars me appear mair fair
+    In a fair maiden's sight.
+
+  "And it was but this verra day
+    That I came ower the sea;
+  Your lovely face did me enchant;
+    I'll live and dee wi thee."
+
+  "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,
+    Nae mair frae me ye 'se gae;
+  That's never my intent, my luve,
+    As ye said, it shall be sae."
+
+  "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,
+    It's time to gae to bed;"
+  "Wi a' my heart, my dear marrow,
+    It's be as ye hae said."
+
+  Then he has staid in bower wi her
+    For sax lang years and ane,
+  Till sax young sons to him she bare,
+    And the seventh she's brought hame.
+
+  But aye as ever a child was born
+    He carried them away,
+  And brought them to his mither's care,
+    As fast as he coud fly.
+
+  Thus he has staid in bower wi her
+    For twenty years and three;
+  There came a lord o high renown
+    To court this fair ladie.
+
+  But still his proffer she refused,
+    And a' his presents too;
+  Says, I'm content to live alane
+    Wi my bird, Cow-me-doo.
+
+  Her father sware a solemn oath
+    Amang the nobles all,
+  "The morn, or ere I eat or drink,
+    This bird I will gar kill."
+
+  The bird was sitting in his cage,
+    And heard what they did say;
+  And when he found they were dismist,
+    Says, Wae's me for this day!
+
+  "Before that I do langer stay,
+    And thus to be forlorn,
+  I'll gang unto my mither's bower,
+    Where I was bred and born."
+
+  Then Cow-me-doo took flight and flew
+    Beyond the raging sea,
+  And lighted near his mither's castle,
+    On a tower o gowd sae hie.
+
+  As his mither was wauking out,
+    To see what she coud see,
+  And there she saw her little son,
+    Set on the tower sae hie.
+
+  "Get dancers here to dance," she said,
+    "And minstrells for to play;
+  For here's my young son, Florentine,
+    Come here wi me to stay."
+
+  "Get nae dancers to dance, mither,
+    Nor minstrells for to play,
+  For the mither o my seven sons,
+    The morn's her wedding-day."
+
+  "O tell me, tell me, Florentine,
+    Tell me, and tell me true,
+  Tell me this day without a flaw,
+    What I will do for you."
+
+  "Instead of dancers to dance, mither,
+    Or minstrells for to play,
+  Turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men
+    Like storks in feathers gray;
+
+  "My seven sons in seven swans,
+    Aboon their heads to flee;
+  And I mysell a gay gos-hawk,
+    A bird o high degree."
+
+  Then sichin said the queen hersell,
+    "That thing's too high for me;"
+  But she applied to an auld woman,
+    Who had mair skill than she.
+
+  Instead o dancers to dance a dance,
+    Or minstrells for to play,
+  Four-and-twenty wall-wight men
+    Turnd birds o feathers gray;
+
+  Her seven sons in seven swans,
+    Aboon their heads to flee;
+  And he himsell a gay gos-hawk,
+    A bird o high degree.
+
+  This flock o birds took flight and flew
+    Beyond the raging sea,
+  And landed near the Earl Mar's castle,
+    Took shelter in every tree.
+
+  They were a flock o pretty birds,
+    Right comely to be seen;
+  The people viewed them wi surprise,
+    As they dancd on the green.
+
+  These birds ascended frae the tree
+    And lighted on the ha,
+  And at the last wi force did flee
+    Amang the nobles a'.
+
+  The storks there seized some o the men,
+    They coud neither fight nor flee;
+  The swans they bound the bride's best man
+    Below a green aik tree.
+
+  They lighted next on maidens fair,
+    Then on the bride's own head,
+  And wi the twinkling o an ee
+    The bride and them were fled.
+
+  There's ancient men at weddings been
+    For sixty years or more,
+  But sic a curious wedding-day
+    They never saw before.
+
+  For naething coud the companie do.
+    Nor naething coud they say
+  But they saw a flock o pretty birds
+    That took their bride away.
+
+  When that Earl Mar he came to know
+    Where his dochter did stay,
+  He signd a bond o unity,
+    And visits now they pay.
+
+
+
+
+EDWARD, EDWARD.
+
+
+  Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid,
+                                Edward, Edward?
+  Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid?
+            And quhy sae sad gang zee, O?
+  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
+                                 Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid:
+                   And I had nae mair bot hee, O.
+
+  Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
+                                  Edward, Edward.
+  Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
+                    My deir son I tell thee, O.
+  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
+                                  Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
+                   That erst was sae fair and free, O.
+
+  Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
+                                  Edward, Edward;
+  Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
+                   Sum other dule ze drie, O.
+  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
+                                  Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
+                   Alas! and wae is mee, O!
+
+  And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that,
+                               Edward, Edward?
+  And quhatten penance will ze drie for that?
+                 My deir son, now tell mee, O.
+  He set my feit in zonder boat,
+                                Mither, mither:
+  He set my feit in zonder boat,
+                    And He fare ovir the sea, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
+                                 Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
+                  That were sae fair to see, O?
+  He let thame stand til they doun fa',
+                                   Mither, mither:
+  He let thame stand til they doun fa',
+                    For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
+                                      Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
+                      Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O?
+  The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,
+                                     Mither, mither;
+  The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,
+                   For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir,
+                                 Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir?
+                    My deir son, now tell me, O.
+  The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir,
+                                 Mither, mither:
+  The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir,
+                 Sic counseils ze gave to me, O.
+
+
+
+KING LEIR & HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+
+
+  King Leir once ruled in this land
+    With princely power and peace;
+  And had all things with hearts content,
+    That might his joys increase.
+  Amongst those things that nature gave,
+    Three daughters fair had he,
+  So princely seeming beautiful,
+    As fairer could not be.
+
+  So on a time it pleas'd the king
+    A question thus to move,
+  Which of his daughters to his grace
+    Could shew the dearest love:
+  For to my age you bring content,
+    Quoth he, then let me hear,
+  Which of you three in plighted troth
+    The kindest will appear.
+
+  To whom the eldest thus began;
+    Dear father, mind, quoth she,
+  Before your face, to do you good,
+    My blood shall render'd be:
+  And for your sake my bleeding heart
+    Shall here be cut in twain,
+  Ere that I see your reverend age
+    The smallest grief sustain.
+
+  And so will I, the second said;
+    Dear father, for your sake,
+  The worst of all extremities
+    I'll gently undertake:
+  And serve your highness night and day
+    With diligence and love;
+  That sweet content and quietness
+    Discomforts may remove.
+
+  In doing so, you glad my soul,
+    The aged king reply'd;
+  But what sayst thou, my youngest girl,
+    How is thy love ally'd?
+  My love (quoth young Cordelia then)
+    Which to your grace I owe,
+  Shall be the duty of a child,
+    And that is all I'll show.
+
+  And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he,
+    Than doth thy duty bind?
+  I well perceive thy love is small,
+    When as no more I find.
+  Henceforth I banish thee my court,
+    Thou art no child of mine;
+  Nor any part of this my realm
+    By favour shall be thine.
+
+  Thy elder sisters loves are more
+    Then well I can demand,
+  To whom I equally bestow
+    My kingdome and my land,
+  My pompal state and all my goods,
+    That lovingly I may
+  With those thy sisters be maintain'd
+    Until my dying day.
+
+  Thus flattering speeches won renown,
+    By these two sisters here;
+  The third had causeless banishment,
+    Yet was her love more dear:
+  For poor Cordelia patiently
+    Went wandring up and down,
+  Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,
+    Through many an English town:
+
+  Untill at last in famous France
+    She gentler fortunes found;
+  Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd
+    The fairest on the ground:
+  Where when the king her virtues heard,
+    And this fair lady seen,
+  With full consent of all his court
+    He made his wife and queen.
+
+  Her father king Leir this while
+    With his two daughters staid:
+  Forgetful of their promis'd loves,
+    Full soon the same decay'd;
+  And living in queen Ragan's court,
+    The eldest of the twain,
+  She took from him his chiefest means,
+    And most of all his train.
+
+  For whereas twenty men were wont
+    To wait with bended knee:
+  She gave allowance but to ten,
+    And after scarce to three;
+  Nay, one she thought too much for him;
+    So took she all away,
+  In hope that in her court, good king,
+    He would no longer stay.
+
+  Am I rewarded thus, quoth he,
+    In giving all I have
+  Unto my children, and to beg
+    For what I lately gave?
+  I'll go unto my Gonorell:
+    My second child, I know,
+  Will be more kind and pitiful,
+    And will relieve my woe.
+
+  Full fast he hies then to her court;
+    Where when she heard his moan
+  Return'd him answer, That she griev'd
+    That all his means were gone:
+  But no way could relieve his wants;
+    Yet if that he would stay
+  Within her kitchen, he should have
+    What scullions gave away.
+
+  When he had heard, with bitter tears,
+    He made his answer then;
+  In what I did let me be made
+    Example to all men.
+  I will return again, quoth he,
+    Unto my Ragan's court;
+  She will not use me thus, I hope,
+    But in a kinder sort.
+
+  Where when he came, she gave command
+    To drive him thence away:
+  When he was well within her court
+    (She said) he would not stay.
+  Then back again to Gonorell
+    The woeful king did hie,
+  That in her kitchen he might have
+    What scullion boy set by.
+
+  But there of that he was deny'd,
+    Which she had promis'd late:
+  For once refusing, he should not
+    Come after to her gate.
+  Thus twixt his daughters, for relief
+    He wandred up and down;
+  Being glad to feed on beggars food,
+    That lately wore a crown.
+
+  And calling to remembrance then
+    His youngest daughters words,
+  That said the duty of a child
+    Was all that love affords:
+  But doubting to repair to her,
+    Whom he had banish'd so,
+  Grew frantick mad; for in his mind
+    He bore the wounds of woe:
+
+  Which made him rend his milk-white locks,
+    And tresses from his head,
+  And all with blood bestain his cheeks,
+    With age and honour spread.
+  To hills and woods and watry founts
+    He made his hourly moan,
+  Till hills and woods and sensless things,
+    Did seem to sigh and groan.
+
+  Even thus possest with discontents,
+    He passed o're to France,
+  In hopes from fair Cordelia there,
+    To find some gentler chance;
+  Most virtuous dame! which when she heard,
+    Of this her father's grief,
+  As duty bound, she quickly sent
+    Him comfort and relief:
+  And by a train of noble peers,
+    In brave and gallant sort,
+  She gave in charge he should be brought
+    To Aganippus' court;
+  Whose royal king, with noble mind
+    So freely gave consent,
+  To muster up his knights at arms,
+    To fame and courage bent.
+
+  And so to England came with speed,
+    To repossesse king Leir
+  And drive his daughters from their thrones
+    By his Cordelia dear.
+  Where she, true-hearted noble queen,
+    Was in the battel slain;
+  Yet he, good king, in his old days,
+    Possest his crown again.
+
+  But when he heard Cordelia's death,
+    Who died indeed for love
+  Of her dear father, in whose cause
+    She did this battle move;
+  He swooning fell upon her breast,
+    From whence he never parted:
+  But on her bosom left his life,
+    That was so truly hearted.
+
+  The lords and nobles when they saw
+    The end of these events,
+  The other sisters unto death
+    They doomed by consents;
+  And being dead, their crowns they left
+    Unto the next of kin:
+  Thus have you seen the fall of pride,
+    And disobedient sin.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+HYND HORN
+
+
+  "Hynde Horn's bound, love, and Hynde Horn's free;
+  Whare was ye born? or frae what cuntrie?"
+
+  "In gude greenwud whare I was born,
+  And all my friends left me forlorn.
+
+  "I gave my love a gay gowd wand,
+  That was to rule oure all Scotland.
+
+  "My love gave me a silver ring,
+  That was to rule abune aw thing.
+
+  "Whan that ring keeps new in hue,
+  Ye may ken that your love loves you.
+
+  "Whan that ring turns pale and wan,
+  Ye may ken that your love loves anither man."
+
+  He hoisted up his sails, and away sailed he
+  Till he cam to a foreign cuntree.
+
+  Whan he lookit to his ring, it was turnd pale and wan;
+  Says, I wish I war at hame again.
+
+  He hoisted up his sails, and hame sailed he
+  Until he cam till his ain cuntree.
+
+  The first ane that he met with,
+  It was with a puir auld beggar-man.
+
+  "What news? what news, my puir auld man?
+  What news hae ye got to tell to me?"
+
+  "Na news, na news," the puir man did say,
+  "But this is our queen's wedding-day."
+
+  "Ye'll lend me your begging-weed,
+  And I'll lend you my riding-steed."
+    "My begging-weed is na for thee,
+  Your riding-steed is na for me."
+
+  He has changed wi the puir auld beggar-man.
+
+  "What is the way that ye use to gae?
+  And what are the words that ye beg wi?"
+
+  "Whan ye come to yon high hill,
+  Ye'll draw your bent bow nigh until.
+
+  "Whan ye come to yon town-end,
+  Ye'll lat your bent bow low fall doun.
+
+  "Ye'll seek meat for St Peter, ask for St Paul,
+  And seek for the sake of your Hynde Horn all.
+
+  "But tak ye frae nane o them aw
+  Till ye get frae the bonnie bride hersel O."
+
+  Whan he cam to yon high hill,
+  He drew his bent bow nigh until.
+
+  And when he cam to yon toun-end,
+  He loot his bent bow low fall doun.
+
+  He sought for St Peter, he askd for St Paul,
+  And he sought for the sake of his Hynde Horn all.
+
+  But he took na frae ane o them aw
+  Till he got frae the bonnie bride hersel O.
+
+  The bride cam tripping doun the stair,
+  Wi the scales o red gowd on her hair.
+
+  Wi a glass o red wine in her hand,
+  To gie to the puir beggar-man.
+
+  Out he drank his glass o wine,
+  Into it he dropt the ring.
+
+  "Got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land,
+  Or got ye't aff a drownd man's hand?"
+
+  "I got na't by sea, I got na't by land,
+  Nor gat I it aff a drownd man's hand;
+
+  "But I got it at my wooing,
+  And I'll gie it to your wedding."
+
+  "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my head,
+  I'll follow you, and beg my bread.
+
+  "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my hair,
+  I'll follow you for evermair."
+
+  She has tane the scales o gowd frae her head,
+  She's followed him, to beg her bread.
+
+  She has tane the scales o gowd frae her hair,
+  And she has followd him evermair.
+
+  Atween the kitchen and the ha,
+  There he loot his cloutie cloak fa.
+
+  The red gowd shined oure them aw,
+  And the bride frae the bridegroom was stown awa.
+
+
+
+
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+
+
+  Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,
+  Because he fought for Freedom and the stricken Negro slave;
+  Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,
+  But his soul is marching on.
+
+                           _Chorus_
+
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       His soul is marching on.
+
+  He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true;
+  His little patriot band into a noble army grew;
+  He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true,
+  And his soul is marching on.
+
+  'Twas not till John Brown lost his life, arose in all its might,
+  The army of the Union men that won the fearful fight;
+  But tho' the glad event, oh! it never met his sight,
+  Still his soul is marching on.
+
+  John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above,
+  Where live the happy spirits in their harmony and love,
+  John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above,
+  And his soul is marching on.
+
+
+
+ TIPPERARY
+
+
+  Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day,
+  As the streets are paved with gold, sure everyone was gay;
+  Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square,
+  Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:--
+
+_Chorus_
+
+  "It's a long way to Tipperary,
+  It's a long way to go;
+  It's a long way to Tipperary,
+  To the sweetest girl I know!
+  Good-bye Piccadilly,
+  Farewell, Leicester Square,
+  It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
+  But my heart's right there!"
+
+  Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O',
+  Saying, "Should you not receive it, write and let me know!
+  "If I make mistakes in 'spelling,' Molly dear,' said he,
+  "Remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me."
+
+  Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy O',
+  Saying, "Mike Maloney wants to marry me, and so
+  Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you'll be to blame,
+  For love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the same!"
+
+
+
+
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+
+
+  There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,
+    And he was a squires son:
+  He loved the bayliffes daughter deare,
+    That lived in Islington.
+
+  Yet she was coye, and would not believe
+    That he did love her soe,
+  Noe nor at any time would she
+    Any countenance to him showe.
+
+  But when his friendes did understand
+    His fond and foolish minde,
+  They sent him up to faire London
+    An apprentice for to binde.
+
+  And when he had been seven long yeares,
+    And never his love could see:
+  Many a teare have I shed for her sake,
+    When she little thought of mee.
+
+  Then all the maids of Islington
+    Went forth to sport and playe,
+  All but the bayliffes daughter deare;
+    She secretly stole awaye.
+
+  She pulled off her gowne of greene,
+    And put on ragged attire,
+  And to faire London she would goe
+    Her true love to enquire.
+
+  And as she went along the high road,
+    The weather being hot and drye,
+  She sat her downe upon a green bank,
+    And her true love came riding bye.
+
+  She started up, with a colour soe redd,
+    Catching hold of his bridle-reine;
+  One penny, one penny, kind Sir, she sayd,
+    Will ease me of much paine.
+
+  Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,
+    Praye tell me where you were borne:
+  At Islington, kind Sir, sayd shee,
+    Where I have had many a scorne.
+
+  I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,
+    O tell me, whether you knowe
+  The bayliffes daughter of Islington:
+    She is dead, Sir, long agoe.
+
+  If she be dead, then take my horse,
+    My saddle and bridle also;
+  For I will into some far countrye,
+    Where noe man shall me knowe.
+
+  O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe,
+    She standeth by thy side;
+  She is here alive, she is not dead,
+    And readye to be thy bride.
+
+  O farewell griefe, and welcome joye,
+    Ten thousand times therefore;
+  For nowe I have founde mine owne true love,
+    Whom I thought I should never see more.
+
+
+
+
+THE THREE RAVENS
+
+
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+    Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+    With a downe
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+  They were as blacke as they might be
+    With a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe
+
+  The one of them said to his mate,
+  "Where shall we our breakefast take?"
+
+  "Downe in yonder greene field,
+  There lies a knight slain vnder his shield.
+
+  "His hounds they lie downe at his feete,
+  So well they can their master keepe.
+
+  "His haukes they flie so eagerly,
+  There's no fowle dare him come nie."
+
+  Downe there comes a fallow doe,
+  As great with yong as she might goe.
+
+  She lift up his bloudy hed,
+  And kist his wounds that were so red.
+
+  She got him up upon her backe,
+  And carried him to earthen lake.
+
+  She buried him before the prime,
+  She was dead herselfe ere even-song time.
+
+  God send every gentleman,
+  Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman.
+
+
+
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+
+
+  The pauky auld Carle come ovir the lee
+  Wi' mony good-eens and days to mee,
+  Saying, Good wife, for zour courtesie,
+    Will ze lodge a silly poor man?
+  The night was cauld, the carle was wat,
+  And down azont the ingle he sat;
+  My dochtors shoulders he gan to clap,
+    And cadgily ranted and sang.
+
+  O wow! quo he, were I as free,
+  As first when I saw this countrie,
+  How blyth and merry wad I bee!
+    And I wad nevir think lang.
+  He grew canty, and she grew fain;
+  But little did her auld minny ken
+  What thir slee twa togither were say'n,
+    When wooing they were sa thrang.
+
+  And O! quo he, ann ze were as black,
+  As evir the crown of your dadyes hat,
+  Tis I wad lay thee by my backe,
+    And awa wi' me thou sould gang.
+  And O! quoth she, ann I were as white,
+  As evir the snaw lay on the dike,
+  Ild dead me braw, and lady-like,
+    And awa with thee Ild gang.
+
+  Between them twa was made a plot;
+  They raise a wee before the cock,
+  And wyliely they shot the lock,
+    And fast to the bent are they gane.
+  Up the morn the auld wife raise,
+  And at her leisure put on her claiths,
+  Syne to the servants bed she gaes
+    To speir for the silly poor man.
+
+  She gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay,
+  The strae was cauld, he was away,
+  She clapt her hands, cryd, Dulefu' day!
+    For some of our geir will be gane.
+  Some ran to coffer, and some to kist,
+  But nought was stown that could be mist.
+  She dancid her lane, cryd, Praise be blest,
+    I have lodgd a leal poor man.
+
+  Since naithings awa, as we can learn,
+  The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn,
+  Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn,
+    And bid her come quickly ben.
+  The servant gaed where the dochter lay,
+  The sheets was cauld, she was away,
+  And fast to her goodwife can say,
+    Shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man.
+
+  O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin,
+  And haste ze, find these traitors agen;
+  For shees be burnt, and hees be slein,
+    The wearyfou gaberlunzie-man.
+  Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit
+  The wife was wood, and out o' her wit;
+  She could na gang, nor yet could sit,
+    But ay did curse and did ban.
+
+  Mean time far hind out owre the lee,
+  For snug in a glen, where nane could see,
+  The twa, with kindlie sport and glee
+    Cut frae a new cheese a whang.
+  The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith,
+  To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith.
+  Quo she, to leave thee, I will laith,
+    My winsome gaberlunzie-man.
+
+  O kend my minny I were wi' zou,
+  Illfardly wad she crook her mou,
+  Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow,
+    Aftir the gaberlunzie-mon.
+  My dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge;
+  And hae na learnt the beggars tonge,
+  To follow me frae toun to toun,
+    And carrie the gaberlunzie on.
+
+  Wi' kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread,
+  And spindles and whorles for them wha need,
+  Whilk is a gentil trade indeed
+    The gaberlunzie to carrie--o.
+  Ill bow my leg and crook my knee,
+  And draw a black clout owre my ee,
+  A criple or blind they will cau me:
+    While we sail sing and be merrie--o.
+
+
+
+
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+
+  There lived a wife at Usher's Well,
+    And a wealthy wife was she;
+  She had three stout and stalwart sons,
+    And sent them oer the sea.
+
+  They hadna been a week from her,
+    A week but barely ane,
+  Whan word came to the carline wife
+    That her three sons were gane.
+
+  They hadna been a week from her,
+    A week but barely three,
+  Whan word came to the carlin wife
+    That her sons she'd never see.
+
+  "I wish the wind may never cease,
+    Nor fashes in the flood,
+  Till my three sons come hame to me,
+    In earthly flesh and blood."
+
+  It fell about the Martinmass,
+    When nights are lang and mirk,
+  The carlin wife's three sons came hame,
+    And their hats were o the birk.
+
+  It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
+    Nor yet in ony sheugh;
+  But at the gates o Paradise,
+     That birk grew fair eneugh.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  "Blow up the fire, my maidens,
+    Bring water from the well;
+  For a' my house shall feast this night,
+    Since my three sons are well."
+
+  And she has made to them a bed,
+    She's made it large and wide,
+  And she's taen her mantle her about,
+    Sat down at the bed-side.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Up then crew the red, red cock,
+    And up and crew the gray;
+  The eldest to the youngest said,
+  'Tis time we were away.
+
+  The cock he hadna crawd but once,
+    And clappd his wings at a',
+  When the youngest to the eldest said,
+    Brother, we must awa.
+
+  "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
+    The channerin worm doth chide;
+  Gin we be mist out o our place,
+    A sair pain we maun bide.
+
+  "Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
+    Fareweel to barn and byre!
+  And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
+    That kindles my mother's fire!"
+
+
+
+
+THE LYE
+
+
+  Goe, soule, the bodies guest,
+    Upon a thanklesse arrant;
+  Feare not to touche the best,
+    The truth shall be thy warrant:
+      Goe, since I needs must dye,
+      And give the world the lye.
+
+  Goe tell the court, it glowes
+    And shines like rotten wood;
+  Goe tell the church it showes
+    What's good, and doth no good:
+      If church and court reply,
+      Then give them both the lye.
+
+  Tell potentates they live
+    Acting by others actions;
+  Not lov'd unlesse they give,
+    Not strong but by their factions;
+      If potentates reply,
+      Give potentates the lye.
+
+  Tell men of high condition,
+    That rule affairs of state,
+  Their purpose is ambition,
+    Their practise onely hate;
+      And if they once reply,
+      Then give them all the lye.
+
+  Tell them that brave it most,
+    They beg for more by spending,
+  Who in their greatest cost
+    Seek nothing but commending;
+      And if they make reply,
+      Spare not to give the lye.
+
+  Tell zeale, it lacks devotion;
+    Tell love, it is but lust;
+  Tell time, it is but motion;
+    Tell flesh, it is but dust;
+      And wish them not reply,
+      For thou must give the lye.
+
+  Tell age, it daily wasteth;
+    Tell honour, how it alters:
+  Tell beauty, how she blasteth;
+    Tell favour, how she falters;
+      And as they shall reply,
+      Give each of them the lye.
+
+  Tell wit, how much it wrangles
+    In tickle points of nicenesse;
+  Tell wisedome, she entangles
+    Herselfe in over-wisenesse;
+      And if they do reply,
+      Straight give them both the lye.
+
+  Tell physicke of her boldnesse;
+    Tell skill, it is pretension;
+  Tell charity of coldness;
+    Tell law, it is contention;
+      And as they yield reply,
+      So give them still the lye.
+
+  Tell fortune of her blindnesse;
+    Tell nature of decay;
+  Tell friendship of unkindnesse;
+    Tell justice of delay:
+      And if they dare reply,
+      Then give them all the lye.
+
+  Tell arts, they have no soundnesse,
+    But vary by esteeming;
+  Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse;
+    And stand too much on seeming:
+      If arts and schooles reply.
+      Give arts and schooles the lye.
+
+  Tell faith, it's fled the citie;
+    Tell how the countrey erreth;
+  Tell, manhood shakes off pitie;
+    Tell, vertue least preferreth:
+      And, if they doe reply,
+      Spare not to give the lye.
+
+  So, when thou hast, as I
+    Commanded thee, done blabbing,
+  Although to give the lye
+    Deserves no less than stabbing,
+      Yet stab at thee who will,
+      No stab the soule can kill.
+
+
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+
+I.
+
+
+  He did not wear his scarlet coat,
+    For blood and wine are red,
+  And blood and wine were on his hands
+    When they found him with the dead,
+  The poor dead woman whom he loved,
+    And murdered in her bed.
+
+  He walked amongst the Trial Men
+    In a suit of shabby grey;
+  A cricket cap was on his head,
+    And his step seemed light and gay;
+  But I never saw a man who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw a man who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    Which prisoners call the sky,
+  And at every drifting cloud that went
+    With sails of silver by.
+
+  I walked, with other souls in pain,
+    Within another ring,
+  And was wondering if the man had done
+    A great or little thing,
+  When a voice behind me whispered low,
+    _"That fellow's got to swing."_
+
+  Dear Christ! the very prison walls
+    Suddenly seemed to reel,
+  And the sky above my head became
+    Like a casque of scorching steel;
+  And, though I was a soul in pain,
+    My pain I could not feel.
+
+  I only knew what hunted thought
+    Quickened his step, and why
+  He looked upon the garish day
+    With such a wistful eye;
+  The man had killed the thing he loved,
+    And so he had to die.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
+    By each let this be heard,
+  Some do it with a bitter look,
+    Some with a flattering word.
+  The coward does it with a kiss,
+    The brave man with a sword!
+
+  Some kill their love when they are young,
+    And some when they are old;
+  Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
+    Some with the hands of Gold:
+  The kindest use a knife, because
+    The dead so soon grow cold.
+
+  Some love too little, some too long,
+    Some sell, and others buy;
+  Some do the deed with many tears,
+    And some without a sigh:
+  For each man kills the thing he loves,
+    Yet each man does not die.
+
+  He does not die a death of shame
+    On a day of dark disgrace,
+  Nor have a noose about his neck,
+    Nor a cloth upon his face,
+  Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
+    Into an empty space.
+
+  He does not sit with silent men
+    Who watch him night and day;
+  Who watch him when he tries to weep,
+    And when he tries to pray;
+  Who watch him lest himself should rob
+    The prison of its prey.
+
+  He does not wake at dawn to see
+    Dread figures throng his room,
+  The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
+    The Sheriff stern with gloom,
+  And the Governor all in shiny black,
+    With the yellow face of Doom.
+
+  He does not rise in piteous haste
+    To put on convict-clothes,
+  While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
+    Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
+  Fingering a watch whose little ticks
+    Are like horrible hammer-blows.
+
+  He does not feel that sickening thirst
+    That sands one's throat, before
+  The hangman with his gardener's gloves
+    Comes through the padded door,
+  And binds one with three leathern thongs,
+    That the throat may thirst no more.
+
+  He does not bend his head to hear
+    The Burial Office read,
+  Nor, while the anguish of his soul
+    Tells him he is not dead,
+  Cross his own coffin, as he moves
+    Into the hideous shed.
+
+  He does not stare upon the air
+    Through a little roof of glass:
+  He does not pray with lips of clay
+    For his agony to pass;
+  Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
+    The kiss of Caiaphas.
+
+
+II
+
+
+  Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard
+    In the suit of shabby grey:
+  His cricket cap was on his head,
+    And his step seemed light and gay,
+  But I never saw a man who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw a man who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    Which prisoners call the sky,
+  And at every wandering cloud that trailed
+    Its ravelled fleeces by.
+
+  He did not wring his hands, as do
+    Those witless men who dare
+  To try to rear the changeling
+    In the cave of black Despair:
+  He only looked upon the sun,
+    And drank the morning air.
+
+  He did not wring his hands nor weep,
+    Nor did he peek or pine,
+  But he drank the air as though it held
+    Some healthful anodyne;
+  With open mouth he drank the sun
+    As though it had been wine!
+
+  And I and all the souls in pain,
+    Who tramped the other ring,
+  Forgot if we ourselves had done
+    A great or little thing,
+  And watched with gaze of dull amaze
+    The man who had to swing.
+
+  For strange it was to see him pass
+    With a step so light and gay,
+  And strange it was to see him look
+    So wistfully at the day,
+  And strange it was to think that he
+    Had such a debt to pay.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
+    That in the spring-time shoot:
+  But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
+    With its adder-bitten root,
+  And, green or dry, a man must die
+    Before it bears its fruit!
+
+  The loftiest place is that seat of grace
+    For which all worldlings try:
+  But who would stand in hempen band
+    Upon a scaffold high,
+  And through a murderer's collar take
+    His last look at the sky?
+
+  It is sweet to dance to violins
+    When Love and Life are fair:
+  To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
+    Is delicate and rare:
+  But it is not sweet with nimble feet
+    To dance upon the air!
+
+  So with curious eyes and sick surmise
+    We watched him day by day,
+  And wondered if each one of us
+    Would end the self-same way,
+  For none can tell to what red Hell
+    His sightless soul may stray.
+
+  At last the dead man walked no more
+    Amongst the Trial Men,
+  And I knew that he was standing up
+    In the black dock's dreadful pen,
+  And that never would I see his face
+    For weal or woe again.
+
+  Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
+    We had crossed each other's way:
+  But we made no sign, we said no word,
+    We had no word to say;
+  For we did not meet in the holy night,
+    But in the shameful day.
+
+  A prison wall was round us both,
+    Two outcast men we were:
+  The world had thrust us from its heart,
+    And God from out His care:
+  And the iron gin that waits for Sin
+    Had caught us in its snare.
+
+
+III.
+
+
+  In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
+    And the dripping wall is high,
+  So it was there he took the air
+    Beneath the leaden sky,
+  And by each side a Warder walked,
+    For fear the man might die.
+
+  Or else he sat with those who watched
+    His anguish night and day;
+  Who watched him when he rose to weep,
+    And when he crouched to pray;
+  Who watched him lest himself should rob
+    Their scaffold of its prey.
+
+  The Governor was strong upon
+    The Regulations Act:
+  The Doctor said that Death was but
+    A scientific fact:
+  And twice a day the Chaplain called,
+    And left a little tract.
+
+  And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
+    And drank his quart of beer:
+  His soul was resolute, and held
+    No hiding-place for fear;
+  He often said that he was glad
+    The hangman's day was near.
+
+  But why he said so strange a thing
+    No warder dared to ask:
+  For he to whom a watcher's doom
+    Is given as his task,
+  Must set a lock upon his lips
+    And make his face a mask.
+
+  Or else he might be moved, and try
+    To comfort or console:
+  And what should Human Pity do
+    Pent up in Murderer's Hole?
+  What word of grace in such a place
+    Could help a brother's soul?
+
+  With slouch and swing around the ring
+    We trod the Fools' Parade!
+  We did not care: we knew we were
+    The Devil's Own Brigade:
+  And shaven head and feet of lead
+    Make a merry masquerade.
+
+  We tore the tarry rope to shreds
+    With blunt and bleeding nails;
+  We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
+    And cleaned the shining rails:
+  And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
+    And clattered with the pails.
+
+  We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
+    We turned the dusty drill:
+  We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
+    And sweated on the mill:
+  But in the heart of every man
+    Terror was lying still.
+
+  So still it lay that every day
+    Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:
+  And we forgot the bitter lot
+    That waits for fool and knave,
+  Till once, as we tramped in from work,
+    We passed an open grave.
+
+  With yawning mouth the yellow hole
+    Gaped for a living thing;
+  The very mud cried out for blood
+    To the thirsty asphalte ring:
+  And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
+    Some prisoner had to swing.
+
+  Right in we went, with soul intent
+    On Death and Dread and Doom:
+  The hangman, with his little bag,
+    Went shuffling through the gloom:
+  And I trembled as I groped my way
+    Into my numbered tomb.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  That night the empty corridors
+    Were full of forms of Fear,
+  And up and down the iron town
+    Stole feet we could not hear,
+  And through the bars that hide the stars
+    White faces seemed to peer.
+
+  He lay as one who lies and dreams
+    In a pleasant meadow-land,
+  The watchers watched him as he slept,
+    And could not understand
+  How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
+    With a hangman close at hand.
+
+  But there is no sleep when men must weep
+    Who never yet have wept:
+  So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave--
+    That endless vigil kept,
+  And through each brain on hands of pain
+    Another's terror crept.
+
+  Alas! it is a fearful thing
+    To feel another's guilt!
+  For, right, within, the Sword of Sin
+    Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
+  And as molten lead were the tears we shed
+    For the blood we had not spilt.
+
+  The warders with their shoes of felt
+    Crept by each padlocked door,
+  And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
+    Grey figures on the floor,
+  And wondered why men knelt to pray
+    Who never prayed before.
+
+  All through the night we knelt and prayed,
+    Mad mourners of a corse!
+  The troubled plumes of midnight shook
+    The plumes upon a hearse:
+  And bitter wine upon a sponge
+    Was the savour of Remorse.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,
+    But never came the day:
+  And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,
+    In the corners where we lay:
+  And each evil sprite that walks by night
+    Before us seemed to play.
+
+  They glided past, they glided fast,
+    Like travellers through a mist:
+  They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
+    Of delicate turn and twist,
+  And with formal pace and loathsome grace
+    The phantoms kept their tryst.
+
+  With mop and mow, we saw them go,
+    Slim shadows hand in hand:
+  About, about, in ghostly rout
+    They trod a saraband:
+  And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
+    Like the wind upon the sand!
+
+  With the pirouettes of marionettes,
+    They tripped on pointed tread:
+  But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
+    As their grisly masque they led,
+  And loud they sang, and long they sang,
+    For they sang to wake the dead.
+
+  _"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide,
+    But fettered limbs go lame!
+  And once, or twice, to throw the dice
+    Is a gentlemanly game,
+  But he does not win who plays with Sin
+    In the secret House of Shame."_
+
+  No things of air these antics were,
+    That frolicked with such glee:
+  To men whose lives were held in gyves,
+    And whose feet might not go free,
+  Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
+    Most terrible to see.
+
+  Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
+    Some wheeled in smirking pairs;
+  With the mincing step of a demirep
+    Some sidled up the stairs:
+  And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
+    Each helped us at our prayers.
+
+  The morning wind began to moan,
+    But still the night went on:
+  Through its giant loom the web of gloom
+    Crept till each thread was spun:
+  And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
+    Of the Justice of the Sun.
+
+  The moaning wind went wandering round
+    The weeping prison-wall:
+  Till like a wheel of turning steel
+    We felt the minutes crawl:
+  O moaning wind! what had we done
+    To have such a seneschal?
+
+  At last I saw the shadowed bars,
+    Like a lattice wrought in lead,
+  Move right across the whitewashed wall
+    That faced my three-plank bed,
+  And I knew that somewhere in the world
+    God's dreadful dawn was red.
+
+  At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
+    At seven all was still,
+  But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
+    The prison seemed to fill,
+  For the Lord of Death with icy breath
+    Had entered in to kill.
+
+  He did not pass in purple pomp,
+    Nor ride a moon-white steed.
+  Three yards of cord and a sliding board
+    Are all the gallows' need:
+  So with rope of shame the Herald came
+    To do the secret deed.
+
+  We were as men who through a fen
+    Of filthy darkness grope:
+  We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
+    Or to give our anguish scope:
+  Something was dead in each of us,
+    And what was dead was Hope.
+
+  For Man's grim Justice goes its way,
+    And will not swerve aside:
+  It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
+    It has a deadly stride:
+  With iron heel it slays the strong,
+    The monstrous parricide!
+
+  We waited for the stroke of eight:
+    Each tongue was thick with thirst:
+  For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
+    That makes a man accursed,
+  And Fate will use a running noose
+    For the best man and the worst.
+
+  We had no other thing to do,
+    Save to wait for the sign to come:
+  So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
+    Quiet we sat and dumb:
+  But each man's heart beat thick and quick,
+    Like a madman on a drum!
+
+  With sudden shock the prison-clock
+    Smote on the shivering air,
+  And from all the gaol rose up a wail
+    Of impotent despair,
+  Like the sound that frightened marches hear
+    From some leper in his lair.
+
+  And as one sees most fearful things
+    In the crystal of a dream,
+  We saw the greasy hempen rope
+    Hooked to the blackened beam,
+  And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
+    Strangled into a scream.
+
+  And all the woe that moved him so
+    That he gave that bitter cry,
+  And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
+    None knew so well as I:
+  For he who lives more lives than one
+    More deaths than one must die.
+
+
+IV
+
+
+  There is no chapel on the day
+    On which they hang a man:
+  The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
+    Or his face is far too wan,
+  Or there is that written in his eyes
+    Which none should look upon.
+
+  So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
+    And then they rang the bell,
+  And the warders with their jingling keys
+    Opened each listening cell,
+  And down the iron stair we tramped,
+    Each from his separate Hell.
+
+  Out into God's sweet air we went,
+    But not in wonted way,
+  For this man's face was white with fear,
+    And that man's face was grey,
+  And I never saw sad men who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw sad men who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    We prisoners called the sky,
+  And at every happy cloud that passed
+    In such strange freedom by.
+
+  But there were those amongst us all
+    Who walked with downcast head,
+  And knew that, had each got his due,
+    They should have died instead:
+  He had but killed a thing that lived,
+    Whilst they had killed the dead.
+
+  For he who sins a second time
+    Wakes a dead soul to pain,
+  And draws it from its spotted shroud,
+    And makes it bleed again,
+  And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,
+    And makes it bleed in vain!
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
+    With crooked arrows starred,
+  Silently we went round and round
+    The slippery asphalte yard;
+  Silently we went round and round,
+    And no man spoke a word.
+
+  Silently we went round and round,
+    And through each hollow mind
+  The Memory of dreadful things
+    Rushed like a dreadful wind,
+  And Horror stalked before each man,
+    And Terror crept behind.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The warders strutted up and down,
+    And watched their herd of brutes,
+  Their uniforms were spick and span,
+    And they wore their Sunday suits,
+  But we knew the work they had been at,
+    By the quicklime on their boots.
+
+  For where a grave had opened wide,
+    There was no grave at all:
+  Only a stretch of mud and sand
+    By the hideous prison-wall,
+  And a little heap of burning lime,
+    That the man should have his pall.
+
+  For he has a pall, this wretched man,
+    Such as few men can claim:
+  Deep down below a prison-yard,
+    Naked for greater shame,
+  He lies, with fetters on each foot,
+    Wrapt in a sheet of flame!
+
+  And all the while the burning lime
+    Eats flesh and bone away,
+  It eats the brittle bone by night,
+    And the soft flesh by day,
+  It eats the flesh and bone by turns,
+    But it eats the heart alway.
+
+       *       *       *       *
+
+  For three long years they will not sow
+    Or root or seedling there:
+  For three long years the unblessed spot
+    Will sterile be and bare,
+  And look upon the wondering sky
+    With unreproachful stare.
+
+  They think a murderer's heart would taint
+    Each simple seed they sow.
+  It is not true! God's kindly earth
+    Is kindlier than men know,
+  And the red rose would but blow more red,
+    The white rose whiter blow.
+
+  Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
+    Out of his heart a white!
+  For who can say by what strange way,
+    Christ brings His will to light,
+  Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
+    Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?
+
+  But neither milk-white rose nor red
+    May bloom in prison-air;
+  The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
+    Are what they give us there:
+  For flowers have been known to heal
+    A common man's despair.
+
+  So never will wine-red rose or white,
+    Petal by petal, fall
+  On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
+    By the hideous prison-wall,
+  To tell the men who tramp the yard
+    That God's Son died for all.
+
+  Yet though the hideous prison-wall
+    Still hems him round and round,
+  And a spirit may not walk by night
+    That is with fetters bound,
+  And a spirit may but weep that lies
+    In such unholy ground.
+
+  He is at peace-this wretched man--
+    At peace, or will be soon:
+  There is no thing to make him mad,
+    Nor does Terror walk at noon,
+  For the lampless Earth in which he lies
+    Has neither Sun nor Moon.
+
+  They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
+    They did not even toll
+  A requiem that might have brought
+    Rest to his startled soul,
+  But hurriedly they took him out,
+    And hid him in a hole.
+
+  The warders stripped him of his clothes,
+    And gave him to the flies:
+  They mocked the swollen purple throat,
+    And the stark and staring eyes:
+  And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
+    In which the convict lies.
+
+  The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
+    By his dishonoured grave:
+  Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
+    That Christ for sinners gave,
+  Because the man was one of those
+    Whom Christ came down to save.
+
+  Yet all is well; he has but passed
+    To Life's appointed bourne:
+  And alien tears will fill for him
+    Pity's long-broken urn,
+  For his mourners will be outcast men,
+    And outcasts always mourn.
+
+
+V
+
+
+  I know not whether Laws be right,
+    Or whether Laws be wrong;
+  All that we know who lie in gaol
+    Is that the wall is strong;
+  And that each day is like a year,
+    A year whose days are long.
+
+  But this I know, that every Law
+    That men have made for Man,
+  Since first Man took his brother's life,
+    And the sad world began,
+  But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
+    With a most evil fan.
+
+  This too I know--and wise it were
+    If each could know the same--
+  That every prison that men build
+    Is built with bricks of shame,
+  And bound with bars lest Christ should see
+    How men their brothers maim.
+
+  With bars they blur the gracious moon,
+    And blind the goodly sun:
+  And they do well to hide their Hell,
+    For in it things are done
+  That Son of God nor son of Man
+    Ever should look upon!
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The vilest deeds like poison weeds,
+    Bloom well in prison-air;
+  It is only what is good in Man
+    That wastes and withers there:
+  Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
+    And the Warder is Despair.
+
+  For they starve the little frightened child
+    Till it weeps both night and day:
+  And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
+    And gibe the old and grey,
+  And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
+    And none a word may say.
+
+  Each narrow cell in which we dwell
+    Is a foul and dark latrine,
+  And the fetid breath of living Death
+    Chokes up each grated screen,
+  And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
+    In humanity's machine.
+
+  The brackish water that we drink
+   Creeps with a loathsome slime,
+  And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
+   Is full of chalk and lime,
+  And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
+   Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
+   Like asp with adder fight,
+  We have little care of prison fare,
+   For what chills and kills outright
+  Is that every stone one lifts by day
+   Becomes one's heart by night.
+
+  With midnight always in one's heart,
+   And twilight in one's cell,
+  We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
+   Each in his separate Hell,
+  And the silence is more awful far
+   Than the sound of a brazen bell.
+
+  And never a human voice comes near
+   To speak a gentle word:
+  And the eye that watches through the door
+   Is pitiless and hard:
+  And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
+   With soul and body marred.
+
+  And thus we rust Life's iron chain
+   Degraded and alone:
+  And some men curse and some men weep,
+    And some men make no moan:
+  But God's eternal Laws are kind
+    And break the heart of stone.
+
+  And every human heart that breaks,
+    In prison-cell or yard,
+  Is as that broken box that gave
+    Its treasure to the Lord,
+  And filled the unclean leper's house
+    With the scent of costliest nard.
+
+  Ah! happy they whose hearts can break
+    And peace of pardon win!
+  How else man may make straight his plan
+    And cleanse his soul from Sin?
+  How else but through a broken heart
+    May Lord Christ enter in?
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  And he of the swollen purple throat,
+    And the stark and staring eyes,
+  Waits for the holy hands that took
+    The Thief to Paradise;
+  And a broken and a contrite heart
+    The Lord will not despise.
+
+  The man in red who reads the Law
+    Gave him three weeks of life,
+  Three little weeks in which to heal    His soul of his soul's strife,
+  And cleanse from every blot of blood
+    The hand that held the knife.
+
+  And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
+    The hand that held the steel:
+  For only blood can wipe out blood,
+    And only tears can heal:
+  And the crimson stain that was of Cain
+    Became Christ's snow-white seal.
+
+
+VI
+
+
+  In Reading gaol by Reading town
+    There is a pit of shame,
+  And in it lies a wretched man
+    Eaten by teeth of flame,
+  In a burning winding-sheet he lies,
+    And his grave has got no name.
+
+  And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
+    In silence let him lie:
+  No need to waste the foolish tear,
+    Or heave the windy sigh:
+  The man had killed the thing he loved,
+    And so he had to die.
+
+  And all men kill the thing they love,
+    By all let this be heard,
+  Some do it with a bitter look,
+    Some with a flattering word,
+  The coward does it with a kiss,
+    The brave man with a sword!
+
+
+
+
+APPENDIX
+
+_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume I._
+
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+
+Printed from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection.
+
+
+KING ESTMERE
+
+This ballad is given from two versions, one in the Percy folio
+manuscript, and of considerable antiquity. The original version was
+probably written at the end of the fifteenth century.
+
+
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+
+One of the earliest known ballads about Robin Hood--from the Percy folio
+manuscript.
+
+
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+
+This ballad is printed from Richard Johnson's _Crown Garland of
+Goulden Roses,_ 1612.
+
+
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+
+This ballad is composed of innumerable small fragments of ancient
+ballads found throughout the plays of Shakespeare, which Thomas Percy
+formed into one.
+
+
+SIR ALDINGAR
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with some additional stanzas
+added by Thomas Percy to complete the story.
+
+
+EDOM O'GORDON
+
+A Scottish ballad--this version was printed at Glasgow in 1755 by Robert
+and Andrew Foulis. It has been enlarged with several stanzas, recovered
+from a fragment of the same ballad, from the Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF CHEVY CHACE
+
+From the Percy folio manuscript, amended by two or three others printed
+in black-letter. Written about the time of Elizabeth.
+
+
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+
+Given from a printed copy, corrected in part by an extract from the
+Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+THE CHILD OF ELLE
+
+Partly from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas
+by Percy as the original copy was defective and mutilated.
+
+
+KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAM WORTH
+
+The text in this ballad is selected from two copies in black-letter. One
+in the Bodleian Library, printed at London by John Danter in 1596. The
+other copy, without date, is from the Pepys Collection.
+
+
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+
+Printed from two manuscript copies transmitted from Scotland. It is
+possible that this ballad is founded on historical fact.
+
+
+EDWARD, EDWARD
+
+An old Scottish ballad--from a manuscript copy transmitted from
+Scotland.
+
+
+KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+
+Version from an old copy in the _Golden Garland,_ black-letter,
+entitled _A lamentable Song of the Death of King Lear and his Three
+Daughters._
+
+
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+
+This ballad is said to have been written by King James V of Scotland.
+
+
+
+_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume II._
+
+
+THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+
+Printed from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections.
+
+
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+
+This ballad was abridged and modernized in the time of James I from one
+much older, entitled _King John and the Bishop of Canterbury._ The
+version given here is from an ancient black-letter copy.
+
+
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+
+Given, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy, entitled
+_Barbara Alien's Cruelty, or the Young Man's Tragedy._
+
+
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+
+The version of this ballad given here is from four ancient copies in
+black-letter: two of them in the Pepys' Library. It is by Thomas Delone.
+First printed in 1612.
+
+
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+
+This is a revised and modernized version of a very old ballad.
+
+
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas
+supplied by Thomas Percy.
+
+
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+
+This ballad is from the Percy folio manuscript with additions and
+amendments from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection.
+It was written probably at the end of the sixteenth century.
+
+
+THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with a few additions and
+alterations from two ancient printed copies.
+
+
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+
+Given from an old black-letter copy.
+
+
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+
+The version of an ancient black-letter copy, edited in part from the
+Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+GIL MORRICE
+
+The version of this ballad given here was printed at Glasgow in 1755.
+Since this date sixteen additional verses have been discovered and added
+to the original ballad.
+
+
+CHILD WATERS
+
+From the Percy folio manuscript, with corrections.
+
+
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+
+From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection.
+
+
+THE LYE
+
+By Sir Walter Raleigh. This poem is from a scarce miscellany entitled
+_Davison's Poems, or a poeticall Rapsodie divided into sixe books ...
+the 4th impression newly corrected and augmented and put into a forme
+more pleasing to the reader._ Lond. 1621.
+
+
+
+_From "English and Scottish Ballads."_
+
+
+MAY COLLIN
+
+From a manuscript at Abbotsford in the Sir Walter Scott Collection,
+_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy._
+
+
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+
+_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy,_ No. 97,
+Abbotsford. From the Sir Walter Scott Collection. Communicated to Sir
+Walter by Mrs. Christiana Greenwood, London, May 27th, 1806.
+
+
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+
+Taken from the Jamieson-Brown manuscript, 1783.
+
+
+CLERK COLVILL
+
+From a transcript of No. 13 of William Tytler's Brown manuscript.
+
+
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+
+From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland,_ 1828.
+
+
+HYND HORN
+
+From Motherwell's manuscript, 1825 and after.
+
+
+THE THREE RAVENS
+
+_Melismate. Musicall Phansies. Fitting the Court, Cittie and Country
+Humours._ London, 1611. (T. Ravenscroft.)
+
+
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+Printed from _Ministrelsy of the Scottish Border_, 1802.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+MANDALAY
+
+By Rudyard Kipling.
+
+
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+
+
+IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY
+
+By Jack Judge and Harry Williams.
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+By Oscar Wilde.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Book of Old Ballads, by Various
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+<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN">
+<html>
+<head>
+<title>Old Ballads</title>
+<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8">
+<style type="text/css">
+
+body {margin:20%; text-align:justify}
+h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {color:#A82C28}
+blockquote {font-size:14pt}
+P {font-size:16pt}
+
+</style>
+</head>
+<body>
+
+
+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Book of Old Ballads, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Book of Old Ballads
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Beverly Nichols
+
+Release Date: May 15, 2003 [EBook #7535]
+[Most recently updated: March 24, 2023]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury, Charles Franks
+and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+<h2>BOOK OF BALLADS, Beverly Nichols, Complete</h2>
+
+
+<br>
+<hr>
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+
+
+
+<center>
+<h1>A BOOK OF OLD BALLADS</h1>
+
+<h4>Selected and with an Introduction</h4>
+
+<h3>by</h3>
+
+<h2>BEVERLEY NICHOLS</h2>
+<br><br>
+
+<img alt="001.jpg (14K)" src="images/001.jpg" height="223" width="280">
+
+</center>
+<br><br>
+<h2>ACKNOWLEDGMENTS</h2>
+
+<p>The thanks and acknowledgments of the publishers are due to
+the<br>
+following: to Messrs. B. Feldman &amp; Co., 125 Shaftesbury
+Avenue, W.C. 2,<br>
+for "It's a Long Way to Tipperary"; to Mr. Rudyard Kipling and
+Messrs.<br>
+Methuen &amp; Co. for "Mandalay" from <i>Barrack Room
+Ballads</i>; and to<br>
+the Executors of the late Oscar Wilde for "The Ballad of Reading
+Gaol."</p>
+
+<p>"The Earl of Mar's Daughter", "The Wife of Usher's Well", "The
+Three<br>
+Ravens", "Thomas the Rhymer", "Clerk Colvill", "Young Beichen",
+"May<br>
+Collin", and "Hynd Horn" have been reprinted from <i>English
+and<br>
+Scottish Ballads</i>, edited by Mr. G. L. Kittredge and the late
+Mr. F.<br>
+J. Child, and published by the Houghton Mifflin Company.</p>
+
+<p>The remainder of the ballads in this book, with the exception
+of "John<br>
+Brown's Body", are from <i>Percy's Reliques</i>, Volumes I and
+II.</p>
+<br><br><br><br>
+
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+<table summary="" style="">
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap01">FOREWORD</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap02">MANDALAY</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap03">THE FROLICKSOME DUKE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap04">THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap05">KING ESTMERE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap06">KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap07">BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap08">FAIR ROSAMOND</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap09">ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap10">THE BOY AND THE MANTLE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap11">THE HEIR OF LINNE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap12">KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID</a> </td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap13">SIR ANDREW BARTON</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap14">MAY COLLIN</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap15">THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap16">THOMAS THE RHYMER</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap17">YOUNG BEICHAN</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap18">BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap19">THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap20">THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap21">CLERK COLVILL</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap22">SIR ALDINGAR</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap23">EDOM O' GORDON</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap24">CHEVY CHACE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap25">SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap26">GIL MORRICE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap27">THE CHILD OF ELLE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap28">CHILD WATERS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap29">KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap30">SIR PATRICK SPENS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap31">THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap32">EDWARD, EDWARD</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap33">KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap34">HYND HORN</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap35">JOHN BROWN'S BODY</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap36">TIPPERARY</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap37">THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap38">THE THREE RAVENS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap39">THE GABERLUNZIE MAN</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap40">THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap41">THE LYE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#chap42">THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+</table>
+
+<p><i>The source of these ballads will be found in the Appendix
+at the end<br>
+of this book.</i></p>
+<br><br><br><br>
+<h2>LIST OF COLOUR PLATES</h2>
+
+<p>
+<a href="#estmere">KING ESTMERE</a><br>
+<a href="#barbara">BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY</a><br>
+<a href="#rosamond">FAIR ROSAMOND</a><br>
+<a href="#mantle">THE BOY AND THE MANTLE</a><br>
+<a href="#cophetua">KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID</a><br>
+<a href="#collin">MAY COLLIN</a><br>
+<a href="#rhymer">THOMAS THE RHYMER</a><br>
+<a href="#beichan">YOUNG BEICHAN</a><br>
+<a href="#colvill">CLERK COLVILL</a><br>
+<a href="#morrice">GIL MORRICE</a><br>
+<a href="#childwaters">CHILD WATERS</a><br>
+<a href="#mars">THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER</a><br>
+<a href="#hynd">HYND HORN</a><br>
+<a href="#islington">THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON</a><br>
+<a href="#ravens">THE THREE RAVENS</a><br>
+<a href="#usher">THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL</a></p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap01">FOREWORD</a></h2>
+
+<h4>By</h4>
+
+<h3>Beverley Nichols</h3>
+
+<p>These poems are the very essence of the British spirit. They
+are, to<br>
+literature, what the bloom of the heather is to the Scot, and
+the<br>
+smell of the sea to the Englishman. All that is beautiful in the
+old<br>
+word "patriotism" ... a word which, of late, has been twisted to
+such<br>
+ignoble purposes ... is latent in these gay and full-blooded
+measures.</p>
+
+<p>But it is not only for these reasons that they are so valuable
+to the<br>
+modern spirit. It is rather for their tonic qualities that they
+should<br>
+be prescribed in 1934. The post-war vintage of poetry is the
+thinnest<br>
+and the most watery that England has ever produced. But here, in
+these<br>
+ballads, are great draughts of poetry which have lost none of
+their<br>
+sparkle and none of their bouquet.</p>
+
+<p>It is worth while asking ourselves why this should be--why
+these poems<br>
+should "keep", apparently for ever, when the average modern poem
+turns<br>
+sour overnight. And though all generalizations are dangerous I
+believe<br>
+there is one which explains our problem, a very simple one....
+namely,<br>
+that the eyes of the old ballad-singers were turned outwards,
+while the<br>
+eyes of the modern lyric-writer are turned inwards.</p>
+
+<p>The authors of the old ballads wrote when the world was young,
+and<br>
+infinitely exciting, when nobody knew what mystery might not lie
+on the<br>
+other side of the hill, when the moon was a golden lamp, lit by
+a<br>
+personal God, when giants and monsters stalked, without the
+slightest<br>
+doubt, in the valleys over the river. In such a world, what could
+a man<br>
+do but stare about him, with bright eyes, searching the horizon,
+while<br>
+his heart beat fast in the rhythm of a song?</p>
+
+<p>But now--the mysteries have gone. We know, all too well, what
+lies on<br>
+the other side of the hill. The scientists have long ago puffed
+out,<br>
+scornfully, the golden lamp of the night ... leaving us in the
+uttermost<br>
+darkness. The giants and the monsters have either skulked away or
+have<br>
+been tamed, and are engaged in writing their memoirs for the
+popular<br>
+press. And so, in a world where everything is known (and
+nothing<br>
+understood), the modern lyric-writer wearily averts his eyes, and
+stares<br>
+into his own heart.</p>
+
+<p>That way madness lies. All madmen are ferocious egotists, and
+so are all<br>
+modern lyric-writers. That is the first and most vital
+difference<br>
+between these ballads and their modern counterparts. The old<br>
+ballad-singers hardly ever used the first person singular. The
+modern<br>
+lyric-writer hardly ever uses anything else.</p>
+<br><br>
+<h3>II</h3>
+
+<p>This is really such an important point that it is worth
+labouring.</p>
+
+<p>Why is ballad-making a lost art? That it <i>is</i> a lost art
+there can<br>
+be no question. Nobody who is painfully acquainted with the
+rambling,<br>
+egotistical pieces of dreary versification, passing for
+modern<br>
+"ballads", will deny it.</p>
+
+<p>Ballad-making is a lost art for a very simple reason. Which
+is, that we<br>
+are all, nowadays, too sicklied o'er with the pale cast of
+thought to<br>
+receive emotions directly, without self-consciousness. If we
+are<br>
+wounded, we are no longer able to sing a song about a clean
+sword, and a<br>
+great cause, and a black enemy, and a waving flag. No--we must
+needs go<br>
+into long descriptions of our pain, and abstruse calculations
+about its<br>
+effect upon our souls.</p>
+
+<p>It is not "we" who have changed. It is life that has changed.
+"We" are<br>
+still men, with the same legs, arms and eyes as our ancestors.
+But life<br>
+has so twisted things that there are no longer any clean swords
+nor<br>
+great causes, nor black enemies. And the flags do not know which
+way to<br>
+flutter, so contrary are the winds of the modern world. All is
+doubt.<br>
+And doubt's colour is grey.</p>
+
+<p>Grey is no colour for a ballad. Ballads are woven from stuff
+of<br>
+primitive hue ... the red blood gushing, the gold sun shining,
+the green<br>
+grass growing, the white snow falling. Never will you find grey
+in a<br>
+ballad. You will find the black of the night and the raven's
+wing,<br>
+and the silver of a thousand stars. You will find the blue of
+many<br>
+summer skies. But you will not find grey.</p>
+<br><br>
+<h3>III</h3>
+
+<p>That is why ballad-making is a lost art. Or almost a lost art.
+For even<br>
+in this odd and musty world of phantoms which we call the
+twentieth<br>
+century, there are times when a man finds himself in a certain
+place at<br>
+a certain hour and something happens to him which takes him out
+of<br>
+himself. And a song is born, simply and sweetly, a song which
+other<br>
+men can sing, for all time, and forget themselves.</p>
+
+<p>Such a song was once written by a master at my old school,
+Marlborough.<br>
+He was a Scot. But he loved Marlborough with the sort of love
+which the<br>
+old ballad-mongers must have had-the sort of love which takes a
+man on<br>
+wings, far from his foolish little body.</p>
+
+<p>He wrote a song called "The Scotch Marlburian".</p>
+
+<p>Here it is:--</p>
+
+<p>  Oh Marlborough, she's a toun o' touns<br>
+  We will say that and mair,<br>
+  We that ha' walked alang her douns<br>
+  And snuffed her Wiltshire air.<br>
+  A weary way ye'll hae to tramp<br>
+  Afore ye match the green<br>
+  O' Savernake and Barbery Camp<br>
+  And a' that lies atween!</p>
+
+<p>The infinite beauty of that phrase ... "and a' that lies
+atween"! The<br>
+infinite beauty as it is roared by seven hundred young throats
+in<br>
+unison! For in that phrase there drifts a whole pageant of
+boyhood--the<br>
+sound of cheers as a race is run on a stormy day in March, the
+tolling<br>
+of the Chapel bell, the crack of ball against bat, the sighs of
+sleep<br>
+in a long white dormitory.</p>
+
+<p>But you may say "What is all this to me? I wasn't at
+Maryborough. I<br>
+don't like schoolboys ... they strike me as dirty, noisy, and
+usually<br>
+foul-minded. Why should I go into raptures about such a song,
+which<br>
+seems only to express a highly debatable approval of a certain
+method of<br>
+education?"</p>
+
+<p>If you are asking yourself that sort of question, you are
+obviously in<br>
+very grave need of the tonic properties of this book. For after
+you have<br>
+read it, you will wonder why you ever asked it.</p>
+<br><br>
+<h3>IV</h3>
+
+<p>I go back and back to the same point, at the risk of boring
+you to<br>
+distraction. For it is a point which has much more "to" it than
+the<br>
+average modern will care to admit, unless he is forced to do
+so.</p>
+
+<p>You remember the generalization about the eyes ... how they
+used to look<br>
+<i>out</i>, but now look <i>in</i>? Well, listen to this....</p>
+
+<p>  <i>I'm</i> feeling blue,<br>
+  <i>I</i> don't know what to do,<br>
+  'Cos <i>I</i> love you<br>
+  And you don't love <i>me</i>.</p>
+
+<p>The above masterpiece is, as far as I am aware, imaginary. But
+it<br>
+represents a sort of <i>reductio ad absurdum</i> of thousands of
+lyrics<br>
+which have been echoing over the post-war world. Nearly all these
+lyrics<br>
+are melancholy, with the profound and primitive melancholy of the
+negro<br>
+swamp, and they are all violently egotistical.</p>
+
+<p>Now this, in the long run, is an influence of far greater evil
+than one<br>
+would be inclined at first to admit. If countless young men,
+every<br>
+night, are to clasp countless young women to their bosoms, and
+rotate<br>
+over countless dancing-floors, muttering "I'm feeling blue ...
+<i>I</i><br>
+don't know what to do", it is not unreasonable to suppose that
+they will<br>
+subconsciously apply some of the lyric's mournful egotism to
+themselves.</p>
+
+<p>Anybody who has even a nodding acquaintance with modern
+psychological<br>
+science will be aware of the significance of "conditioning", as
+applied<br>
+to the human temperament. The late M. Cou&eacute; "conditioned"
+people into<br>
+happiness by making them repeat, over and over again, the phrase
+"Every<br>
+day in every way I grow better and better and better."</p>
+
+<p>The modern lyric-monger exactly reverses M. Cou&eacute;'s
+doctrine. He makes<br>
+the patient repeat "Every night, with all my might, I grow worse
+and<br>
+worse and worse." Of course the "I" of the lyric-writer is an
+imaginary<br>
+"I", but if any man sings "<i>I'm</i> feeling blue", often
+enough, to a<br>
+catchy tune, he will be a superman if he does not eventually
+apply that<br>
+"I" to himself.</p>
+
+<p>But the "blueness" is really beside the point. It is the
+<i>egotism</i><br>
+of the modern ballad which is the trouble. Even when, as they<br>
+occasionally do, the modern lyric-writers discover, to their<br>
+astonishment, that they are feeling happy, they make the
+happiness such<br>
+a personal issue that half its tonic value is destroyed. It is
+not, like<br>
+the old ballads, just an outburst of delight, a sudden rapture at
+the<br>
+warmth of the sun, or the song of the birds, or the glint of
+moonlight<br>
+on a sword, or the dew in a woman's eyes. It is not an emotion so
+sweet<br>
+and soaring that self is left behind, like a dull chrysalis,
+while the<br>
+butterfly of the spirit flutters free. No ... the chrysalis is
+never<br>
+left behind, the "I", "I", "I", continues, in a maddening
+monotone. And<br>
+we get this sort of thing....</p>
+
+<p>  <i>I</i> want to be happy,<br>
+  But <i>I</i> can't be happy<br>
+  Till <i>I've</i> made you happy too.</p>
+
+<p>And that, if you please, is one of the jolliest lyrics of the
+last<br>
+decade! That was a song which made us all smile and set all our
+feet<br>
+dancing!</p>
+
+<p>Even when their tale was woven out of the stuff of tragedy,
+the old<br>
+ballads were not tarnished with such morbid speculations. Read
+the tale<br>
+of the beggar's daughter of Bethnal Green. One shudders to think
+what a<br>
+modern lyric-writer would make of it. We should all be in tears
+before<br>
+the end of the first chorus.</p>
+
+<p>But here, a lovely girl leaves her blind father to search for
+fortune.<br>
+She has many adventures, and in the end, she marries a knight.
+The<br>
+ballad ends with words of almost childish simplicity, but they
+are words<br>
+which ring with the true tone of happiness:--</p>
+
+<p>  Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte<br>
+  A bridegroome most happy then was the young knighte<br>
+  In joy and felicitie long lived hee<br>
+  All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>I said that the words were of almost childish simplicity. But
+the<br>
+student of language, and the would-be writer, might do worse than
+study<br>
+those words, if only to see how the cumulative effect of
+brightness and<br>
+radiance is gained. You may think the words are artless, but
+just<br>
+ponder, for a moment, the number of brilliant verbal symbols
+which are<br>
+collected into that tiny verse. There are only four lines. But
+those<br>
+lines contain these words ...</p>
+
+<p>Feast, joy, delight, bridegroom, happy, joy, young, felicity,
+fair,<br>
+pretty.</p>
+
+<p>Is that quite so artless, after all? Is it not rather like an
+old and<br>
+primitive plaque, where colour is piled on colour till you would
+say<br>
+the very wood will burst into flame ... and yet, the total effect
+is one<br>
+of happy simplicity?</p>
+<br><br>
+<h3>V</h3>
+
+<p>How were the early ballads born? Who made them? One man or
+many? Were<br>
+they written down, when they were still young, or was it only
+after the<br>
+lapse of many generations, when their rhymes had been sharpened
+and<br>
+their metres polished by constant repetition, that they were
+finally<br>
+copied out?</p>
+
+<p>To answer these questions would be one of the most fascinating
+tasks<br>
+which the detective in letters could set himself. Grimm,
+listening<br>
+in his fairyland, heard some of the earliest ballads, loved
+them,<br>
+pondered on them, and suddenly startled the world by announcing
+that<br>
+most ballads were not the work of a single author, but of the
+people at<br>
+large. <i>Das Volk dichtet</i>, he said. And that phrase got him
+into a<br>
+lot of trouble. People told him to get back to his fairyland and
+not<br>
+make such ridiculous suggestions. For how, they asked, could a
+whole<br>
+people make a poem? You might as well tell a thousand men to make
+a<br>
+tune, limiting each of them to one note!</p>
+
+<p>To invest Grimm's words with such an intention is quite
+unfair.<br>
+[Footnote:  For a discussion of Grimm's theories, together with
+much<br>
+interesting speculation on the origin of the ballads, the reader
+should<br>
+study the admirable introduction to <i>English and Scottish
+Popular<br>
+Ballads</i>, published by George Harrap &amp; Co., Ltd.]
+Obviously a<br>
+multitude of people could not, deliberately, make a single poem
+any more<br>
+than a multitude of people could, deliberately, make a single
+picture,<br>
+one man doing the nose, one man an eye and so on. Such a
+suggestion is<br>
+grotesque, and Grimm never meant it. If I might guess at what he
+meant,<br>
+I would suggest that he was thinking that the origin of ballads
+must<br>
+have been similar to the origin of the dance, (which was probably
+the<br>
+earliest form of aesthetic expression known to man).</p>
+
+<p>The dance was invented because it provided a means of
+prolonging ecstasy<br>
+by art. It may have been an ecstasy of sex or an ecstasy of
+victory ...<br>
+that doesn't matter. The point is that it gave to a group of
+people an<br>
+ordered means of expressing their delight instead of just leaping
+about<br>
+and making loud cries, like the animals. And you may be sure that
+as the<br>
+primitive dance began, there was always some member of the tribe
+a<br>
+little more agile than the rest--some man who kicked a little
+higher or<br>
+wriggled his body in an amusing way. And the rest of them copied
+him,<br>
+and incorporated his step into their own.</p>
+
+<p>Apply this analogy to the origin of ballads. It fits
+perfectly.</p>
+
+<p>There has been a successful raid, or a wedding, or some great
+deed of<br>
+daring, or some other phenomenal thing, natural or supernatural.
+And now<br>
+that this day, which will ever linger in their memories, is
+drawing to<br>
+its close, the members of the tribe draw round the fire and begin
+to<br>
+make merry. The wine passes ... and tongues are loosened. And
+someone<br>
+says a phrase which has rhythm and a sparkle to it, and the
+phrase is<br>
+caught up and goes round the fire, and is repeated from mouth to
+mouth.<br>
+And then the local wit caps it with another phrase and a rhyme is
+born.<br>
+For there is always a local wit in every community, however
+primitive.<br>
+There is even a local wit in the monkey house at the zoo.</p>
+
+<p>And once you have that single rhyme and that little piece of
+rhythm, you<br>
+have the genesis of the whole thing. It may not be worked out
+that<br>
+night, nor even by the men who first made it. The fire may long
+have<br>
+died before the ballad is completed, and tall trees may stand
+over the<br>
+men and women who were the first to tell the tale. But rhyme and
+rhythm<br>
+are indestructible, if they are based on reality. "Not marble nor
+the<br>
+gilded monuments of princes shall outlive this powerful
+rhyme."</p>
+
+<p>And so it is that some of the loveliest poems in the language
+will ever<br>
+remain anonymous. Needless to say, <i>all</i> the poems are
+not<br>
+anonymous. As society became more civilized it was inevitable
+that the<br>
+peculiar circumstances from which the earlier ballads sprang
+should<br>
+become less frequent. Nevertheless, about nearly all of the
+ballads<br>
+there is "a common touch", as though even the most self-conscious
+author<br>
+had drunk deep of the well of tradition, that sparkling well in
+which so<br>
+much beauty is distilled.</p>
+
+<h3>VI</h3>
+
+<p>But though the author or authors of most of the ballads may be
+lost in<br>
+the lists of time, we know a good deal about the minstrels who
+sang<br>
+them. And it is a happy thought that those minstrels were
+such<br>
+considerable persons, so honourably treated, so generously
+esteemed.<br>
+The modern mind, accustomed to think of the singer of popular
+songs<br>
+either as a highly paid music-hall artist, at the top of the
+ladder, or<br>
+a shivering street-singer, at the bottom of it, may find it
+difficult to<br>
+conceive of a minstrel as a sort of ambassador of song, moving
+from<br>
+court to court with dignity and ceremony.</p>
+
+<p>Yet this was actually the case. In the ballad of King Estmere,
+for<br>
+example, we see the minstrel finely mounted, and accompanied by
+a<br>
+harpist, who sings his songs for him. This minstrel, too, moves
+among<br>
+kings without any ceremony. As Percy has pointed out, "The
+further we<br>
+carry our enquiries back, the greater respect we find paid to
+the<br>
+professors of poetry and music among all the Celtic and Gothic
+nations.<br>
+Their character was deemed so sacred that under its sanction our
+famous<br>
+King Alfred made no scruple to enter the Danish camp, and was at
+once<br>
+admitted to the king's headquarters."</p>
+
+<p><i>And even so late as the time of Froissart, we have
+minstrels and<br>
+heralds mentioned together, as those who might securely go into
+an<br>
+enemy's country.</i></p>
+
+<p>The reader will perhaps forgive me if I harp back, once more,
+to our<br>
+present day and age, in view of the quite astonishing change in
+national<br>
+psychology which that revelation implies. Minstrels and heralds
+were<br>
+once allowed safe conduct into the enemy's country, in time of
+war. Yet,<br>
+in the last war, it was considered right and proper to hiss the
+work of<br>
+Beethoven off the stage, and responsible newspapers seriously
+suggested<br>
+that never again should a note of German music, of however
+great<br>
+antiquity, be heard in England! We are supposed to have
+progressed<br>
+towards internationalism, nowadays. Whereas, in reality, we have
+grown<br>
+more and more frenziedly national. We are very far behind the age
+of<br>
+Froissart, when there was a true internationalism--the
+internationalism<br>
+of art.</p>
+
+<p>To some of us that is still a very real internationalism. When
+we hear a<br>
+Beethoven sonata we do not think of it as issuing from the brain
+of a<br>
+"Teuton" but as blowing from the eternal heights of music whose
+winds<br>
+list nothing of frontiers.</p>
+
+<p>Man <i>needs</i> song, for he is a singing animal. Moreover,
+he needs<br>
+communal song, for he is a social animal. The military
+authorities<br>
+realized this very cleverly, and they encouraged the troops,
+during the<br>
+war, to sing on every possible occasion. Crazy pacifists, like
+myself,<br>
+may find it almost unbearably bitter to think that on each side
+of<br>
+various frontiers young men were being trained to sing themselves
+to<br>
+death, in a struggle which was hideously impersonal, a struggle
+of<br>
+machinery, in which the only winners were the armament
+manufacturers.<br>
+And crazy pacifists might draw a very sharp line indeed between
+the<br>
+songs which celebrated real personal struggles in the tiny wars
+of the<br>
+past, and the songs which were merely the prelude to thousands
+of<br>
+puzzled young men suddenly finding themselves choking in chlorine
+gas,<br>
+in the wars of the present.</p>
+
+<p>But even the craziest pacifist could not fail to be moved by
+some of the<br>
+ballads of the last war. To me, "Tipperary" is still the most
+moving<br>
+tune in the world. It happens to be a very good tune, from
+the<br>
+musician's point of view, a tune that Handel would not have been
+ashamed<br>
+to write, but that is not the point. Its emotional qualities are
+due to<br>
+its associations. Perhaps that is how it has always been, with
+ballads.<br>
+From the standard of pure aesthetics, one ought not to
+consider<br>
+"associations" in judging a poem or a tune, but with a song
+like<br>
+"Tipperary" you would be an inhuman prig if you didn't. We all
+have our<br>
+"associations" with this particular tune. For me, it recalls a
+window in<br>
+Hampstead, on a grey day in October 1914. I had been having the
+measles,<br>
+and had not been allowed to go back to school. Then suddenly,
+down the<br>
+street, that tune echoed. And they came marching, and marching,
+and<br>
+marching. And they were all so happy.</p>
+
+<p>So happy.</p>
+<br><br>
+<h3>VII</h3>
+
+<p>"Tipperary" is a true ballad, which is why it is included in
+this book.<br>
+So is "John Brown's Body". They were not written as ballads but
+they<br>
+have been promoted to that proud position by popular vote.</p>
+
+<p>It will now be clear, from the foregoing remarks, that there
+are<br>
+thousands of poems, labelled "ballads" from the eighteenth
+century,<br>
+through the romantic movement, and onwards, which are not ballads
+at<br>
+all. Swinburne's ballads, which so shocked our grandparents, bore
+about<br>
+as much relation to the true ballads as a vase of wax fruit to
+a<br>
+hawker's barrow. They were lovely patterns of words, woven like
+some<br>
+exquisite, foaming lace, but they were Swinburne, Swinburne all
+the<br>
+time. They had nothing to do with the common people. The common
+people<br>
+would not have understood a word of them.</p>
+
+<p>Ballads <i>must</i> be popular. And that is why it will always
+remain<br>
+one of the weirdest paradoxes of literature that the only man,
+except<br>
+Kipling, who has written a true ballad in the last fifty years is
+the<br>
+man who despised the people, who shrank from them, and jeered at
+them,<br>
+from his little gilded niche in Piccadilly. I refer, of course,
+to Oscar<br>
+Wilde's "Ballad of Reading Gaol." It was a true ballad, and it
+was the<br>
+best thing he ever wrote. For it was written <i>de profundis</i>,
+when<br>
+his hands were bloody with labour and his tortured spirit had
+been down<br>
+to the level of the lowest, to the level of the pavement ... nay,
+lower<br>
+... to the gutter itself. And in the gutter, with agony, he
+learned the<br>
+meaning of song.</p>
+
+<p>Ballads begin and end with the people. You cannot escape that
+fact. And<br>
+therefore, if I wished to collect the ballads of the future, the
+songs<br>
+which will endure into the next century (if there <i>is</i> any
+song in<br>
+the next century), I should not rake through the contemporary
+poets, in<br>
+the hope of finding gems of lasting brilliance. No. I should go
+to the<br>
+music-halls. I should listen to the sort of thing they sing when
+the<br>
+faded lady with the high bust steps forward and shouts, "Now
+then, boys,<br>
+all together!"</p>
+
+<p>Unless you can write the words "Now then, boys, all together",
+at the<br>
+top of a ballad, it is not really a ballad at all. That may sound
+a<br>
+sweeping statement, but it is true.</p>
+
+<p>In the present-day music-halls, although they have fallen from
+their<br>
+high estate, we should find a number of these songs which seem
+destined<br>
+for immortality. One of these is "Don't 'ave any more, Mrs.
+Moore."</p>
+
+<p>Do you remember it?</p>
+
+<p>  Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!<br>
+  Mrs. Moore, oh don't 'ave any more!<br>
+  Too many double gins<br>
+  Give the ladies double chins,<br>
+  So don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!</p>
+
+<p>The whole of English "low life" (which is much the most
+exciting part of<br>
+English life) is in that lyric. It is as vivid as a Rowlandson
+cartoon.<br>
+How well we know Mrs. Moore! How plainly we see her ... the
+amiable,<br>
+coarse-mouthed, generous-hearted tippler, with her elbow on
+countless<br>
+counters, her damp coppers clutched in her rough hands, her
+eyes<br>
+staring, a little vacantly, about her. Some may think it is a
+sordid<br>
+picture, but I am sure that they cannot know Mrs. Moore very well
+if<br>
+they think that. They cannot know her bitter struggles, her
+silent<br>
+heroisms, nor her sardonic humour.</p>
+
+<p>Lyrics such as these will, I believe, endure long after many
+of the most<br>
+renowned and fashionable poets of to-day are forgotten. They all
+have<br>
+the same quality, that they can be prefaced by that inspiring
+sentence,<br>
+"Now then, boys--all together!" Or to put it another way, as in
+the<br>
+ballad of George Barnwell,</p>
+
+<p>  All youths of fair England<br>
+  That dwell both far and near,<br>
+  Regard my story that I tell<br>
+  And to my song give ear.</p>
+
+<p>That may sound more dignified, but it amounts to the same
+thing!</p>
+<br><br>
+<h3>VIII</h3>
+
+<p>But if the generation to come will learn a great deal from the
+few<br>
+popular ballads which we are still creating in our music-halls,
+how much<br>
+more shall we learn of history from these ballads, which rang
+through<br>
+the whole country, and were impregnated with the spirit of a
+whole<br>
+people! These ballads <i>are</i> history, and as such they should
+be<br>
+recognised.</p>
+
+<p>It has always seemed to me that we teach history in the wrong
+way. We<br>
+give boys the impression that it is an affair only of kings and
+queens<br>
+and great statesmen, of generals and admirals, and such-like
+bores.<br>
+Thousands of boys could probably draw you a map of many
+pettifogging<br>
+little campaigns, with startling accuracy, but not one in a
+thousand<br>
+could tell you what the private soldier carried in his knapsack.
+You<br>
+could get sheaves of competent essays, from any school, dealing
+with<br>
+such things as the Elizabethan ecclesiastical settlement, but how
+many<br>
+boys could tell you, even vaguely, what an English home was like,
+what<br>
+they ate, what coins were used, how their rooms were lit, and
+what they<br>
+paid their servants?</p>
+
+<p>In other words, how many history masters ever take the trouble
+to sketch<br>
+in the great background, the life of the common people? How many
+even<br>
+realize their <i>existence</i>, except on occasions of
+national<br>
+disaster, such as the Black Plague?</p>
+
+<p>A proper study of the ballads would go a long way towards
+remedying this<br>
+defect. Thomas Percy, whose <i>Reliques</i> must ever be the main
+source<br>
+of our information on all questions connected with ballads, has
+pointed<br>
+out that all the great events of the country have, sooner or
+later,<br>
+found their way into the country's song-book. But it is not only
+the<br>
+resounding names that are celebrated. In the ballads we hear the
+echoes<br>
+of the street, the rude laughter and the pointed jests. Sometimes
+these<br>
+ring so plainly that they need no explanation. At other times, we
+have<br>
+to go to Percy or to some of his successors to realize the
+true<br>
+significance of the song.</p>
+
+<p>For example, the famous ballad "John Anderson my Jo" seems, at
+first<br>
+sight, to be innocent of any polemical intention. But it was
+written<br>
+during the Reformation when, as Percy dryly observes, "the Muses
+were<br>
+deeply engaged in religious controversy." The zeal of the
+Scottish<br>
+reformers was at its height, and this zeal found vent in many a
+pasquil<br>
+discharged at Popery. It caused them, indeed, in their frenzy,
+to<br>
+compose songs which were grossly licentious, and to sing these
+songs in<br>
+rasping voices to the tunes of some of the most popular hymns in
+the<br>
+Latin Service.</p>
+
+<p>"John Anderson my Jo" was such a ballad composed for such an
+occasion.<br>
+And Percy, who was more qualified than any other man to read
+between the<br>
+lines, has pointed out that the first stanza contains a
+satirical<br>
+allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy, while the second,
+which<br>
+makes an apparently light reference to "seven bairns", is
+actually<br>
+concerned with the seven sacraments, five of which were the
+spurious<br>
+offspring of Mother Church.</p>
+
+<p>Thus it was in a thousand cases. The ballads, even the
+lightest and most<br>
+blossoming of them, were deep-rooted in the soil of English
+history. How<br>
+different from anything that we possess to-day! Great causes do
+not lead<br>
+men to song, nowadays they lead them to write letters to the
+newspapers.<br>
+A national thanksgiving cannot call forth a single rhyme or a
+single bar<br>
+of music. Who can remember a solitary verse of thanksgiving, from
+any of<br>
+our poets, in commemoration of any of the victories of the Great
+War?<br>
+Who can recall even a fragment of verse in praise of the
+long-deferred<br>
+coming of Peace?</p>
+
+<p>Very deeply significant is it that our only method of
+commemorating<br>
+Armistice Day was by a two minutes silence. No song. No music.
+Nothing.<br>
+The best thing we could do, we felt, was to keep quiet.</p>
+
+
+
+
+<br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap02">MANDALAY</a></h2>
+<img alt="033.jpg (13K)" src="images/033.jpg" height="174" width="248">
+<br><br>
+<p>  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,<br>
+  There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o'
+me;<br>
+  For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they
+say:<br>
+  'Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to
+Mandalay!'<br>
+  Come you back to Mandalay,<br>
+  Where the old Flotilla lay:<br>
+  Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to
+Mandalay?<br>
+  On the road to Mandalay,<br>
+  Where the flyin'-fishes play,<br>
+  An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the
+Bay!</p>
+
+<p>  'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,<br>
+  An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's
+Queen,<br>
+  An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,<br>
+  An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:<br>
+      Bloomin' idol made o' mud--<br>
+      Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--<br>
+      Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she
+stud!<br>
+      On the road to Mandalay...</p>
+
+<p>  When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was
+droppin' slow,<br>
+  She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing
+<i>'Kulla-lo-lo!'</i><br>
+  With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek<br>
+  We useter watch the steamers an' the <i>hathis</i> pilin'
+teak.<br>
+      Elephints a-pilin' teak<br>
+      In the sludgy, squdgy creek,<br>
+      Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to
+speak!<br>
+      On the road to Mandalay...</p>
+
+<p>  But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away,<br>
+  An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to
+Mandalay;<br>
+  An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier
+tells:<br>
+  'If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed
+naught<br>
+            else.'<br>
+      No! you won't 'eed nothin' else<br>
+      But them spicy garlic smells,<br>
+      An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly
+temple-bells;<br>
+      On the road to Mandalay...</p>
+
+<p>  I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty
+pavin'-stones,<br>
+  An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my
+bones;<br>
+  Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the
+Strand,<br>
+  An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?<br>
+      Beefy face an' grubby 'and--<br>
+      Law! wot do they understand?<br>
+      I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener
+land!<br>
+      On the road to Mandalay ...</p>
+
+<p>  Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the
+worst,<br>
+  Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a
+thirst;<br>
+  For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would
+be--<br>
+  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;<br>
+         On the road to Mandalay,<br>
+         Where the old Flotilla lay,<br>
+         With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to
+Mandalay!<br>
+         O the road to Mandalay,<br>
+         Where the flyin'-fishes play,<br>
+         An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost
+the Bay!</p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap03">THE FROLICKSOME DUKE</a></h2>
+
+<p>or</p>
+
+<h3>THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE</h3>
+<img alt="036.jpg (17K)" src="images/036.jpg" height="193" width="240">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  Now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court,<br>
+  One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport:<br>
+  But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest,<br>
+  Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest:<br>
+  A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground,<br>
+  As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.</p>
+
+<p>  The Duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben,<br>
+  Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then.<br>
+  O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd<br>
+  To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd:<br>
+  Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and
+hose,<br>
+  And they put him to bed for to take his repose.</p>
+
+<p>  Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt,<br>
+  They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt:<br>
+  On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,<br>
+  They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown.<br>
+  In the morning when day, then admiring he lay,<br>
+  For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay.</p>
+
+<p>  Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state,<br>
+  Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait;<br>
+  And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare,<br>
+  He desired to know what apparel he'd ware:<br>
+  The poor tinker amaz'd on the gentleman gaz'd,<br>
+  And admired how he to this honour was rais'd.</p>
+
+<p>  Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit,<br>
+  Which he straitways put on without longer dispute;<br>
+  With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd,<br>
+  And it seem'd for to swell him "no" little with pride;<br>
+  For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife?<br>
+  Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.</p>
+
+<p>  From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace<br>
+  Did observe his behaviour in every case.<br>
+  To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait,<br>
+  Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great:<br>
+  Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view,<br>
+  With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew.</p>
+
+<p>  A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests,<br>
+  He was plac'd at the table above all the rest,<br>
+  In a rich chair "or bed," lin'd with fine crimson red,<br>
+  With a rich golden canopy over his head:<br>
+  As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet,<br>
+  With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.</p>
+
+<p>  While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine,<br>
+  Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine.<br>
+  Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl,<br>
+  Till at last he began for to tumble and roul<br>
+  From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,<br>
+  Being seven times drunker than ever before.</p>
+
+<p>  Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain,<br>
+  And restore him his old leather garments again:<br>
+  'T was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must,<br>
+  And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first;<br>
+  There he slept all the night, as indeed well he might;<br>
+  But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.</p>
+
+<p>  For his glory "to him" so pleasant did seem,<br>
+  That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream;<br>
+  Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought<br>
+  For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought;<br>
+  But his highness he said, Thou 'rt a jolly bold blade,<br>
+  Such a frolick before I think never was plaid.</p>
+
+<p>  Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak,<br>
+  Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak;<br>
+  Nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground,<br>
+  Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round,<br>
+  Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend,<br>
+  Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend.</p>
+
+<p>  Then the tinker reply'd, What! must Joan my sweet bride<br>
+  Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride?<br>
+  Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command?<br>
+  Then I shall be a squire I well understand:<br>
+  Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace,<br>
+  I was never before in so happy a case.</p>
+
+<img alt="039.jpg (3K)" src="images/039.jpg" height="98" width="142">
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap04">THE KNIGHT &amp; SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER</a></h2>
+<img alt="040.jpg (13K)" src="images/040.jpg" height="159" width="243">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  There was a shepherd's daughter<br>
+    Came tripping on the waye;<br>
+  And there by chance a knighte shee mett,<br>
+    Which caused her to staye.</p>
+
+<p>  Good morrowe to you, beauteous maide,<br>
+    These words pronounced hee:<br>
+  O I shall dye this daye, he sayd,<br>
+    If Ive not my wille of thee.</p>
+
+<p>  The Lord forbid, the maide replyde,<br>
+    That you shold waxe so wode!<br>
+  "But for all that shee could do or saye,<br>
+    He wold not be withstood."</p>
+
+<p>  Sith you have had your wille of mee,<br>
+    And put me to open shame,<br>
+  Now, if you are a courteous knighte,<br>
+    Tell me what is your name?</p>
+
+<p>  Some do call mee Jacke, sweet heart,<br>
+    And some do call mee Jille;<br>
+  But when I come to the kings faire courte<br>
+    They call me Wilfulle Wille.</p>
+
+<p>  He sett his foot into the stirrup,<br>
+    And awaye then he did ride;<br>
+  She tuckt her girdle about her middle,<br>
+    And ranne close by his side.</p>
+
+<p>  But when she came to the brode water,<br>
+    She sett her brest and swamme;<br>
+  And when she was got out againe,<br>
+    She tooke to her heels and ranne.</p>
+
+<p>  He never was the courteous knighte,<br>
+    To saye, faire maide, will ye ride?<br>
+  "And she was ever too loving a maide<br>
+    To saye, sir knighte abide."</p>
+
+<p>  When she came to the kings faire courte,<br>
+    She knocked at the ring;<br>
+  So readye was the king himself<br>
+    To let this faire maide in.</p>
+
+<p>  Now Christ you save, my gracious liege,<br>
+    Now Christ you save and see,<br>
+  You have a knighte within your courte,<br>
+    This daye hath robbed mee.</p>
+
+<p>  What hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart?<br>
+    Of purple or of pall?<br>
+  Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring<br>
+    From off thy finger small?</p>
+
+<p>  He hath not robbed mee, my liege,<br>
+    Of purple nor of pall:<br>
+  But he hath gotten my maiden head,<br>
+    Which grieves mee worst of all.</p>
+
+<p>  Now if he be a batchelor,<br>
+    His bodye He give to thee;<br>
+  But if he be a married man,<br>
+    High hanged he shall bee.</p>
+
+<p>  He called downe his merrye men all,<br>
+    By one, by two, by three;<br>
+  Sir William used to bee the first,<br>
+    But nowe the last came hee.</p>
+
+<p>  He brought her downe full fortye pounde,<br>
+    Tyed up withinne a glove:<br>
+  Faire maide, He give the same to thee;<br>
+    Go, seeke thee another love.</p>
+
+<p>  O Ile have none of your gold, she sayde,<br>
+    Nor Ile have none of your fee;<br>
+  But your faire bodye I must have,<br>
+    The king hath granted mee.</p>
+
+<p>  Sir William ranne and fetched her then<br>
+    Five hundred pound in golde,<br>
+  Saying, faire maide, take this to thee,<br>
+    Thy fault will never be tolde.</p>
+
+<p>  Tis not the gold that shall mee tempt,<br>
+    These words then answered shee,<br>
+  But your own bodye I must have,<br>
+    The king hath granted mee.</p>
+
+<p>  Would I had dranke the water cleare,<br>
+    When I did drinke the wine,<br>
+  Rather than any shepherds brat<br>
+    Shold bee a ladye of mine!</p>
+
+<p>  Would I had drank the puddle foule,<br>
+    When I did drink the ale,<br>
+  Rather than ever a shepherds brat<br>
+    Shold tell me such a tale!</p>
+
+<p>  A shepherds brat even as I was,<br>
+    You mote have let me bee,<br>
+  I never had come to the kings faire courte,<br>
+    To crave any love of thee.</p>
+
+<p>  He sett her on a milk-white steede,<br>
+    And himself upon a graye;<br>
+  He hung a bugle about his necke,<br>
+    And soe they rode awaye.</p>
+
+<p>  But when they came unto the place,<br>
+    Where marriage-rites were done,<br>
+  She proved herself a dukes daught&egrave;r,<br>
+    And he but a squires sonne.</p>
+
+<p>  Now marrye me, or not, sir knight,<br>
+    Your pleasure shall be free:<br>
+  If you make me ladye of one good towne,<br>
+    He make you lord of three.</p>
+
+<p>  Ah! cursed bee the gold, he sayd,<br>
+    If thou hadst not been trewe,<br>
+  I shold have forsaken my sweet love,<br>
+    And have changed her for a newe.</p>
+
+<p>  And now their hearts being linked fast,<br>
+    They joyned hand in hande:<br>
+  Thus he had both purse, and person too,<br>
+    And all at his commande.</p>
+
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap05">KING ESTMERE</a></h2>
+<img alt="045.jpg (15K)" src="images/045.jpg" height="171" width="233">
+<br><br>
+<a name="estmere"></a>
+<img alt="estmere.jpg (161K)" src="images/estmere.jpg" height="1037" width="750">
+
+<p>  Hearken to me, gentlemen,<br>
+    Come and you shall heare;<br>
+  Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren<br>
+    That ever borne y-were.</p>
+
+<p>  The tone of them was Adler younge,<br>
+    The tother was kyng Estmere;<br>
+  The were as bolde men in their deeds,<br>
+    As any were farr and neare.</p>
+
+<p>  As they were drinking ale and wine<br>
+    Within kyng Estmeres halle:<br>
+  When will ye marry a wyfe, broth&egrave;r,<br>
+    A wyfe to glad us all?</p>
+
+<p>  Then bespake him kyng Estmere,<br>
+    And answered him hastilee:<br>
+  I know not that ladye in any land<br>
+    That's able to marrye with mee.</p>
+
+<p>  Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother,<br>
+    Men call her bright and sheene;<br>
+  If I were kyng here in your stead,<br>
+    That ladye shold be my queene.</p>
+
+<p>  Saies, Reade me, reade me, deare brother,<br>
+    Throughout merry Engl&agrave;nd,<br>
+  Where we might find a messenger<br>
+    Betwixt us towe to sende.</p>
+
+<p>  Saies, You shal ryde yourselfe, broth&egrave;r,<br>
+    Ile beare you companye;<br>
+  Many throughe fals messengers are deceived,<br>
+    And I feare lest soe shold wee.</p>
+
+<p>  Thus the renisht them to ryde<br>
+    Of twoe good renisht steeds,<br>
+  And when the came to kyng Adlands halle,<br>
+    Of redd gold shone their weeds.</p>
+
+<p>  And when the came to kyng Adlands hall<br>
+    Before the goodlye gate,<br>
+  There they found good kyng Adl&agrave;nd<br>
+    Rearing himselfe theratt.</p>
+
+<p>  Now Christ thee save, good kyng Adland;<br>
+   Now Christ you save and see.<br>
+  Sayd, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,<br>
+   Right hartilye to mee.</p>
+
+<p>  You have a daughter, said Adler younge,<br>
+   Men call her bright and sheene,<br>
+  My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe,<br>
+   Of Englande to be queene.</p>
+
+<p>  Yesterday was att my deere daughter<br>
+   Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne;<br>
+  And then she nicked him of naye,<br>
+   And I doubt sheele do you the same.</p>
+
+<p>  The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim,<br>
+   And 'leeveth on Mahound;<br>
+  And pitye it were that fayre ladye<br>
+   Shold marrye a heathen hound.</p>
+
+<p>  But grant to me, sayes kyng Estmere,<br>
+   For my love I you praye;<br>
+  That I may see your daughter deere<br>
+   Before I goe hence awaye.</p>
+
+<p>  Although itt is seven yeers and more<br>
+   Since my daughter was in halle,<br>
+  She shall come once downe for your sake<br>
+   To glad my guestes alle.</p>
+
+<p>  Downe then came that mayden fayre,<br>
+    With ladyes laced in pall,<br>
+  And halfe a hundred of bold knightes,<br>
+    To bring her from bowre to hall;<br>
+  And as many gentle squiers,<br>
+    To tend upon them all.</p>
+
+<p>  The talents of golde were on her head sette,<br>
+    Hanged low downe to her knee;<br>
+  And everye ring on her small fing&egrave;r<br>
+    Shone of the chrystall free.</p>
+
+<p>  Saies, God you save, my deere madam;<br>
+    Saies, God you save and see.<br>
+  Said, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,<br>
+    Right welcome unto mee.</p>
+
+<p>  And if you love me, as you saye,<br>
+    Soe well and hartilye,<br>
+  All that ever you are comin about<br>
+    Sooner sped now itt shal bee.</p>
+
+<p>  Then bespake her father deare:<br>
+    My daughter, I saye naye;<br>
+  Remember well the kyng of Spayne,<br>
+    What he sayd yesterday.</p>
+
+<p>  He wold pull downe my hales and castles,<br>
+     And reeve me of my life.<br>
+  I cannot blame him if he doe,<br>
+     If I reave him of his wyfe.</p>
+
+<p>  Your castles and your towres, father,<br>
+     Are stronglye built aboute;<br>
+  And therefore of the king of Spaine<br>
+     Wee neede not stande in doubt.</p>
+
+<p>  Plight me your troth, nowe, kyng Estm&egrave;re,<br>
+     By heaven and your righte hand,<br>
+  That you will marrye me to your wyfe,<br>
+     And make me queene of your land.</p>
+
+<p>  Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth<br>
+     By heaven and his righte hand,<br>
+  That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe,<br>
+     And make her queene of his land.</p>
+
+<p>  And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,<br>
+     To goe to his owne countree,<br>
+  To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,<br>
+     That marryed the might bee.</p>
+
+<p>  They had not ridden scant a myle,<br>
+     A myle forthe of the towne,<br>
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne,<br>
+     With kemp&egrave;s many one.</p>
+
+<p>  But in did come the kyng of Spayne,<br>
+     With manye a bold barone,<br>
+  Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,<br>
+     Tother daye to carrye her home.</p>
+
+<p>  Shee sent one after kyng Estmere<br>
+     In all the spede might bee,<br>
+  That he must either turne againe and fighte,<br>
+     Or goe home and loose his ladye.</p>
+
+<p>  One whyle then the page he went,<br>
+     Another while he ranne;<br>
+  Tull he had oretaken king Estmere,<br>
+      I wis, he never blanne.</p>
+
+<p>  Tydings, tydings, kyng Estmere!<br>
+     What tydinges nowe, my boye?<br>
+  O tydinges I can tell to you,<br>
+     That will you sore annoye.</p>
+
+<p>  You had not ridden scant a mile,<br>
+     A mile out of the towne,<br>
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne<br>
+     With kemp&egrave;s many a one:</p>
+
+<p>  But in did come the kyng of Spayne<br>
+     With manye a bold barone,<br>
+  Tone daye to marrye king Adlands daughter,<br>
+     Tother daye to carry her home.</p>
+
+<p>  My ladye fayre she greetes you well,<br>
+   And ever-more well by mee:<br>
+  You must either turne againe and fighte,<br>
+   Or goe home and loose your lady&egrave;.</p>
+
+<p>  Saies, Reade me, reade me, deere brother,<br>
+   My reade shall ryde at thee,<br>
+  Whether it is better to turne and fighte,<br>
+   Or goe home and loose my ladye.</p>
+
+<p>  Now hearken to me, sayes Adler yonge,<br>
+   And your reade must rise at me,<br>
+  I quicklye will devise a waye<br>
+   To sette thy ladye free.</p>
+
+<p>  My mother was a westerne woman,<br>
+   And learned in gramary&egrave;,<br>
+  And when I learned at the schole,<br>
+   Something she taught itt mee.</p>
+
+<p>  There growes an hearbe within this field,<br>
+   And iff it were but knowne,<br>
+  His color, which is whyte and redd,<br>
+   It will make blacke and browne:</p>
+
+<p>  His color, which is browne and blacke,<br>
+   Itt will make redd and whyte;<br>
+  That sworde is not in all Englande,<br>
+   Upon his coate will byte.</p>
+
+<p>  And you shall be a harper, brother,<br>
+    Out of the north countrye;<br>
+  And He be your boy, soe faine of fighte,<br>
+    And beare your harpe by your knee.</p>
+
+<p>  And you shal be the best harp&egrave;r,<br>
+    That ever tooke harpe in hand;<br>
+  And I wil be the best sing&egrave;r,<br>
+    That ever sung in this lande.</p>
+
+<p>  Itt shal be written on our forheads<br>
+    All and in grammary&egrave;,<br>
+  That we towe are the boldest men,<br>
+    That are in all Christenty&egrave;.</p>
+
+<p>  And thus they renisht them to ryde,<br>
+    On tow good renish steedes;<br>
+  And when they came to king Adlands hall,<br>
+    Of redd gold shone their weedes.</p>
+
+<p>  And whan they came to kyng Adlands hall,<br>
+    Untill the fayre hall yate,<br>
+  There they found a proud port&egrave;r<br>
+    Rearing himselfe thereatt.</p>
+
+<p>  Sayes, Christ thee save, thou proud port&egrave;r;<br>
+    Sayes, Christ thee save and see.<br>
+  Nowe you be welcome, sayd the port&egrave;r,<br>
+    Of whatsoever land ye bee.</p>
+
+<p>  Wee beene harpers, sayd Adler younge,<br>
+    Come out of the northe countrye;<br>
+  Wee beene come hither untill this place,<br>
+    This proud weddinge for to see.</p>
+
+<p>  Sayd, And your color were white and redd,<br>
+    As it is blacke and browne,<br>
+  I wold saye king Estmere and his brother,<br>
+    Were comen untill this towne.</p>
+
+<p>  Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,<br>
+    Layd itt on the porters arme:<br>
+  And ever we will thee, proud porter,<br>
+    Thow wilt saye us no harme.</p>
+
+<p>  Sore he looked on king Estmere,<br>
+    And sore he handled the ryng,<br>
+  Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,<br>
+    He lett for no kind of thyng.</p>
+
+<p>  King Estmere he stabled his steede<br>
+    Soe fayre att the hall bord;<br>
+  The froth, that came from his brydle bitte,<br>
+    Light in kyng Bremors beard.</p>
+
+<p>  Saies, Stable thy steed, thou proud harper,<br>
+    Saies, Stable him in the stalle;<br>
+  It doth not beseeme a proud harper<br>
+    To stable 'him' in a kyngs halle.</p>
+
+<p>  My ladde he is no lither, he said,<br>
+    He will doe nought that's meete;<br>
+  And is there any man in this hall<br>
+    Were able him to beate</p>
+
+<p>  Thou speakst proud words, sayes the king of Spaine,<br>
+    Thou harper, here to mee:<br>
+  There is a man within this halle<br>
+    Will beate thy ladd and thee.</p>
+
+<p>  O let that man come downe, he said,<br>
+    A sight of him wold I see;<br>
+  And when hee hath beaten well my ladd,<br>
+    Then he shall beate of mee.</p>
+
+<p>  Downe then came the kemperye man,<br>
+    And looketh him in the eare;<br>
+  For all the gold, that was under heaven,<br>
+    He durst not neigh him neare.</p>
+
+<p>  And how nowe, kempe, said the Kyng of Spaine,<br>
+    And how what aileth thee?<br>
+  He saies, It is writt in his forhead<br>
+    All and in gramary&egrave;,<br>
+  That for all the gold that is under heaven<br>
+    I dare not neigh him nye.</p>
+
+<p>  Then Kyng Estmere pulld forth his harpe,<br>
+    And plaid a pretty thinge:<br>
+  The ladye upstart from the borde,<br>
+    And wold have gone from the king.</p>
+
+<p>  Stay thy harpe, thou proud harper,<br>
+    For Gods love I pray thee,<br>
+  For and thou playes as thou beginns,<br>
+    Thou'lt till my bryde from mee.</p>
+
+<p>  He stroake upon his harpe againe,<br>
+    And playd a pretty thinge;<br>
+  The ladye lough a loud laughter,<br>
+    As shee sate by the king.</p>
+
+<p>  Saies, Sell me thy harpe, thou proud harper,<br>
+    And thy stringes all,<br>
+  For as many gold nobles 'thou shall have'<br>
+    As heere bee ringes in the hall.</p>
+
+<p>  What wold ye doe with my harpe,' he sayd,'<br>
+    If I did sell itt yee?<br>
+  "To playe my wiffe and me a fitt,<br>
+    When abed together wee bee."</p>
+
+<p>  Now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay,<br>
+    As shee sitts by thy knee,<br>
+  And as many gold nobles I will give,<br>
+    As leaves been on a tree.</p>
+
+<p>  And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay,<br>
+    Iff I did sell her thee?<br>
+  More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye<br>
+    To lye by mee then thee.</p>
+
+<p>  Hee played agayne both loud and shrille,<br>
+    And Adler he did syng,<br>
+  "O ladye, this is thy owne true love;<br>
+    Noe harper, but a kyng.</p>
+
+<p>  "O ladye, this is thy owne true love,<br>
+    As playnlye thou mayest see;<br>
+  And He rid thee of that foule paynim,<br>
+    Who partes thy love and thee."</p>
+
+<p>  The ladye looked, the ladye blushte,<br>
+    And blushte and lookt agayne,<br>
+  While Adler he hath drawne his brande,<br>
+    And hath the Sowdan slayne.</p>
+
+<p>  Up then rose the kemperye men,<br>
+    And loud they gan to crye:<br>
+  Ah; traytors, yee have slayne our kyng,<br>
+    And therefore yee shall dye.</p>
+
+<p>  Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,<br>
+    And swith he drew his brand;<br>
+  And Estmere he, and Adler yonge<br>
+    Right stiffe in slodr can stand.</p>
+
+<p>  And aye their swordes soe sore can byte,<br>
+    Throughe help of Gramary&egrave;,<br>
+  That soone they have slayne the kempery men,<br>
+    Or forst them forth to flee.</p>
+
+<p>  Kyng Estmere took that fayre ladye,<br>
+    And marryed her to his wiffe,<br>
+  And brought her home to merry England<br>
+    With her to leade his life.</p>
+
+
+
+<img alt="057.jpg (4K)" src="images/057.jpg" height="135" width="111">
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap06">KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY</a></h2>
+<img alt="058.jpg (15K)" src="images/058.jpg" height="187" width="239">
+<br><br>
+<p>  An ancient story Ile tell you anon<br>
+  Of a notable prince, that was called King John;<br>
+  And he ruled England with maine and with might,<br>
+  For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.</p>
+
+<p>  And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,<br>
+  Concerning the Abbot of Canterb&ugrave;rye;<br>
+  How for his house-keeping, and high renowne,<br>
+  They rode poste for him to fair London towne.</p>
+
+<p>  An hundred men, the king did heare say,<br>
+  The abbot kept in his house every day;<br>
+  And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,<br>
+  In velvet coates waited the abbot about.</p>
+
+<p>  How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,<br>
+  Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,<br>
+  And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,<br>
+  I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.</p>
+
+<p>  My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne,<br>
+  I never spend nothing, but what is my owne;<br>
+  And I trust, your grace will doe me no deere,<br>
+  For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.</p>
+
+<p>  Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe,<br>
+  And now for the same thou needest must dye;<br>
+  For except thou canst answer me questions three,<br>
+  Thy head shall be smitten from thy bod&igrave;e.</p>
+
+<p>  And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead,<br>
+  With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,<br>
+  Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,<br>
+  Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.</p>
+
+<p>  Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,<br>
+  How soone I may ride the whole world about.<br>
+  And at the third question thou must not shrink,<br>
+  But tell me here truly what I do think.</p>
+
+<p>  O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,<br>
+  Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:<br>
+  But if you will give me but three weekes space,<br>
+  Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.</p>
+
+<p>  Now three weeks space to thee will I give,<br>
+  And that is the longest time thou hast to live;<br>
+  For if thou dost not answer my questions three,<br>
+  Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.</p>
+
+<p>  Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,<br>
+  And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;<br>
+  But never a doctor there was so wise,<br>
+  That could with his learning an answer devise.</p>
+
+<p>  Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,<br>
+  And he mett his shepheard a going to fold:<br>
+  How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;<br>
+  What newes do you bring us from good King John?</p>
+
+<p>  "Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give;<br>
+  That I have but three days more to live:<br>
+  For if I do not answer him questions three,<br>
+  My head will be smitten from my bodie.</p>
+
+<p>  The first is to tell him there in that stead,<br>
+  With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,<br>
+  Among all his liege men so noble of birth,<br>
+  To within one penny of all what he is worth.</p>
+
+<p>  The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,<br>
+  How soon he may ride this whole world about:<br>
+  And at the third question I must not shrinke,<br>
+  But tell him there truly what he does thinke."</p>
+
+<p>  Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,<br>
+  That a fool he may learn a wise man witt?<br>
+  Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,<br>
+  And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.</p>
+
+<p>  Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,<br>
+  I am like your lordship, as ever may bee:<br>
+  And if you will but lend me your gowne,<br>
+  There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.</p>
+
+<p>  Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have,<br>
+  With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;<br>
+  With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,<br>
+  Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.</p>
+
+<p>  Now welcome, sire abbott, the king he did say,<br>
+  'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day;<br>
+  For and if thou canst answer my questions three,<br>
+  Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.</p>
+
+<p>  And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,<br>
+  With my crowne of gold so fair on my head,<br>
+  Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,<br>
+  Tell me to one penny what I am worth.</p>
+
+<p>  "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold<br>
+  Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told;<br>
+  And twenty nine is the worth of thee,<br>
+  For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee."</p>
+
+<p>  The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,<br>
+  I did not thinke I had been worth so littel!<br>
+  --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,<br>
+  How soon I may ride this whole world about.</p>
+
+<p>  "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,<br>
+  Until the next morning he riseth againe;<br>
+  And then your grace need not make any doubt,<br>
+  But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."</p>
+
+<p>  The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,<br>
+  I did not think, it could be gone so soone!<br>
+  --Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,<br>
+  But tell me here truly what I do thinke.</p>
+
+<p>  "Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:<br>
+  You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterb&ugrave;ry;<br>
+  But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,<br>
+  That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee."</p>
+
+<p>  The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,<br>
+  He make thee lord abbot this day in his place!<br>
+  "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,<br>
+  For alacke I can neither write ne reade."</p>
+
+<p>  Four nobles a weeke, then I will give thee,<br>
+  For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee;<br>
+  And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,<br>
+  Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.</p>
+
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap07">BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY</a></h2>
+<img alt="063.jpg (8K)" src="images/063.jpg" height="100" width="250">
+<br><br>
+
+<a name="barbara"></a>
+<img alt="barbara.jpg (141K)" src="images/barbara.jpg" height="1031" width="750">
+
+<p>  In Scarlet towne where I was borne,<br>
+    There was a faire maid dwellin,<br>
+  Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye!<br>
+    Her name was Barbara Allen.</p>
+
+<p>  All in the merrye month of May,<br>
+    When greene buds they were swellin,<br>
+  Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,<br>
+    For love of Barbara Allen.</p>
+
+<p>  He sent his man unto her then,<br>
+    To the town where shee was dwellin;<br>
+  You must come to my master deare,<br>
+    Giff your name be Barbara Alien.</p>
+
+<p>  For death is printed on his face,<br>
+    And ore his harte is stealin:<br>
+  Then haste away to comfort him,<br>
+    O lovelye Barbara Alien.</p>
+
+<p>  Though death be printed on his face,<br>
+    And ore his harte is stealin,<br>
+  Yet little better shall he bee<br>
+    For bonny Barbara Alien.</p>
+
+<p>  So slowly, slowly, she came up,<br>
+    And slowly she came nye him;<br>
+  And all she sayd, when there she came,<br>
+    Yong man, I think y'are dying.</p>
+
+<p>  He turned his face unto her strait,<br>
+    With deadlye sorrow sighing;<br>
+  O lovely maid, come pity mee,<br>
+    Ime on my death-bed lying.</p>
+
+<p>  If on your death-bed you doe lye,<br>
+    What needs the tale you are tellin;<br>
+  I cannot keep you from your death;<br>
+    Farewell, sayd Barbara Alien.</p>
+
+<p>  He turned his face unto the wall,<br>
+    As deadlye pangs he fell in:<br>
+  Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all,<br>
+    Adieu to Barbara Allen.</p>
+
+<p>  As she was walking ore the fields,<br>
+    She heard the bell a knellin;<br>
+  And every stroke did seem to saye,<br>
+    Unworthye Barbara Allen.</p>
+
+<p>  She turned her bodye round about,<br>
+    And spied the corps a coming:<br>
+  Laye down, lay down the corps, she sayd,<br>
+    That I may look upon him.</p>
+
+<p>  With scornful eye she looked downe,<br>
+    Her cheeke with laughter swellin;<br>
+  Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine,<br>
+    Unworthye Barbara Allen.</p>
+
+<p>  When he was dead, and laid in grave,<br>
+    Her harte was struck with sorrowe,<br>
+  O mother, mother, make my bed,<br>
+    For I shall dye to-morrowe.</p>
+
+<p>  Hard-harted creature him to slight,<br>
+    Who loved me so dearlye:<br>
+  O that I had beene more kind to him<br>
+    When he was alive and neare me!</p>
+
+<p>  She, on her death-bed as she laye,<br>
+    Beg'd to be buried by him;<br>
+  And sore repented of the daye,<br>
+    That she did ere denye him.</p>
+
+<p>  Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all,<br>
+    And shun the fault I fell in:<br>
+  Henceforth take warning by the fall<br>
+    Of cruel Barbara Allen.</p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap08">FAIR ROSAMOND</a></h2>
+<img alt="067.jpg (9K)" src="images/067.jpg" height="131" width="244">
+<br><br>
+<a name="rosamond"></a>
+<img alt="rosamond.jpg (198K)" src="images/rosamond.jpg" height="1019" width="750">
+
+
+<p>  When as King Henry rulde this land,<br>
+    The second of that name,<br>
+  Besides the queene, he dearly lovde<br>
+    A faire and comely dame.</p>
+
+<p>  Most peerlesse was her beautye founde,<br>
+    Her favour, and her face;<br>
+  A sweeter creature in this worlde<br>
+    Could never prince embrace.</p>
+
+<p>  Her crisped lockes like threads of golde<br>
+    Appeard to each mans sight;<br>
+  Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles,<br>
+    Did cast a heavenlye light.</p>
+
+<p>  The blood within her crystal cheekes<br>
+    Did such a colour drive,<br>
+  As though the lillye and the rose<br>
+    For mastership did strive.</p>
+
+<p>  Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde,<br>
+    Her name was called so,<br>
+  To whom our queene, dame Ellinor,<br>
+    Was known a deadlye foe.</p>
+
+<p>  The king therefore, for her defence,<br>
+    Against the furious queene,<br>
+  At Woodstocke builded such a bower,<br>
+    The like was never scene.</p>
+
+<p>  Most curiously that bower was built<br>
+    Of stone and timber strong,<br>
+  An hundred and fifty doors<br>
+   Did to this bower belong:</p>
+
+<p>  And they so cunninglye contriv'd<br>
+    With turnings round about,<br>
+  That none but with a clue of thread,<br>
+    Could enter in or out.</p>
+
+<p>  And for his love and ladyes sake,<br>
+    That was so faire and brighte,<br>
+  The keeping of this bower he gave<br>
+    Unto a valiant knighte.</p>
+
+<p>  But fortune, that doth often frowne<br>
+    Where she before did smile,<br>
+  The kinges delighte and ladyes so<br>
+    Full soon shee did beguile:</p>
+
+<p>  For why, the kinges ungracious sonne,<br>
+    Whom he did high advance,<br>
+  Against his father raised warres<br>
+    Within the realme of France.</p>
+
+<p>  But yet before our comelye king<br>
+    The English land forsooke,<br>
+  Of Rosamond, his lady faire,<br>
+    His farewelle thus he tooke:</p>
+
+<p>  "My Rosamonde, my only Rose,<br>
+    That pleasest best mine eye:<br>
+  The fairest flower in all the worlde<br>
+    To feed my fantasye:</p>
+
+<p>  The flower of mine affected heart,<br>
+    Whose sweetness doth excelle:<br>
+  My royal Rose, a thousand times<br>
+    I bid thee nowe farwelle!</p>
+
+<p>  For I must leave my fairest flower,<br>
+    My sweetest Rose, a space,<br>
+  And cross the seas to famous France,<br>
+    Proud rebelles to abase.</p>
+
+<p>  But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt<br>
+    My coming shortlye see,<br>
+  And in my heart, when hence I am,<br>
+    Ile beare my Rose with mee."</p>
+
+<p>  When Rosamond, that ladye brighte,<br>
+    Did heare the king saye soe,<br>
+  The sorrowe of her grieved heart<br>
+    Her outward lookes did showe;</p>
+
+<p>  And from her cleare and crystall eyes<br>
+    The teares gusht out apace,<br>
+  Which like the silver-pearled dewe<br>
+    Ranne downe her comely face.</p>
+
+<p>  Her lippes, erst like the corall redde,<br>
+    Did waxe both wan and pale,<br>
+  And for the sorrow she conceivde<br>
+    Her vitall spirits faile;</p>
+
+<p>  And falling down all in a swoone<br>
+    Before King Henryes face,<br>
+  Full oft he in his princelye armes<br>
+    Her bodye did embrace:</p>
+
+<p>  And twentye times, with watery eyes,<br>
+    He kist her tender cheeke,<br>
+  Untill he had revivde againe<br>
+    Her senses milde and meeke.</p>
+
+<p>  Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?<br>
+    The king did often say.<br>
+  Because, quoth shee, to bloodye warres<br>
+    My lord must part awaye.</p>
+
+<p>  But since your grace on forrayne coastes<br>
+    Amonge your foes unkinde<br>
+  Must goe to hazard life and limbe,<br>
+    Why should I staye behinde?</p>
+
+<p>  Nay rather, let me, like a page,<br>
+    Your sworde and target beare;<br>
+  That on my breast the blowes may lighte,<br>
+    Which would offend you there.</p>
+
+<p>  Or lett mee, in your royal tent,<br>
+    Prepare your bed at nighte,<br>
+  And with sweete baths refresh your grace,<br>
+    Ar your returne from fighte.</p>
+
+<p>  So I your presence may enjoye<br>
+    No toil I will refuse;<br>
+  But wanting you, my life is death;<br>
+    Nay, death Ild rather chuse!</p>
+
+<p>  "Content thy self, my dearest love;<br>
+    Thy rest at home shall bee<br>
+  In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle;<br>
+    For travell fits not thee.</p>
+
+<p>  Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres;<br>
+    Soft peace their sexe delights;<br>
+  Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers;<br>
+    Gay feastes, not cruell fights.'</p>
+
+<p>  My Rose shall safely here abide,<br>
+    With musicke passe the daye;<br>
+  Whilst I, amonge the piercing pikes,<br>
+    My foes seeke far awaye.</p>
+
+<p>  My Rose shall shine in pearle, and golde,<br>
+    Whilst Ime in armour dighte;<br>
+  Gay galliards here my love shall dance,<br>
+    Whilst I my foes goe fighte.</p>
+
+<p>  And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste<br>
+    To bee my loves defence;<br>
+  Be careful of my gallant Rose<br>
+    When I am parted hence."</p>
+
+<p>  And therewithall he fetcht a sigh,<br>
+    As though his heart would breake:<br>
+  And Rosamonde, for very grief,<br>
+    Not one plaine word could speake.</p>
+
+<p>  And at their parting well they mighte<br>
+    In heart be grieved sore:<br>
+  After that daye faire Rosamonde<br>
+    The king did see no more.</p>
+
+<p>  For when his grace had past the seas,<br>
+    And into France was gone;<br>
+  With envious heart, Queene Ellinor,<br>
+    To Woodstocke came anone.</p>
+
+<p>  And forth she calls this trustye knighte,<br>
+    In an unhappy houre;<br>
+  Who with his clue of twined thread,<br>
+    Came from this famous bower.</p>
+
+<p>  And when that they had wounded him,<br>
+    The queene this thread did gette,<br>
+  And went where Ladye Rosamonde<br>
+    Was like an angell sette.</p>
+
+<p>  But when the queene with stedfast eye<br>
+    Beheld her beauteous face,<br>
+  She was amazed in her minde<br>
+    At her exceeding grace.</p>
+
+<p>  Cast off from thee those robes, she said,<br>
+    That riche and costlye bee;<br>
+  And drinke thou up this deadlye draught,<br>
+    Which I have brought to thee.</p>
+
+<p>  Then presentlye upon her knees<br>
+    Sweet Rosamonde did fall;<br>
+  And pardon of the queene she crav'd<br>
+    For her offences all.</p>
+
+<p>  "Take pitty on my youthfull yeares,"<br>
+    Faire Rosamonde did crye;<br>
+  "And lett mee not with poison stronge<br>
+    Enforced bee to dye.</p>
+
+<p>  I will renounce my sinfull life,<br>
+    And in some cloyster bide;<br>
+  Or else be banisht, if you please,<br>
+    To range the world soe wide.</p>
+
+<p>  And for the fault which I have done,<br>
+    Though I was forc'd thereto,<br>
+  Preserve my life, and punish mee<br>
+    As you thinke meet to doe."</p>
+
+<p>  And with these words, her lillie handes<br>
+    She wrunge full often there;<br>
+  And downe along her lovely face<br>
+    Did trickle many a teare.</p>
+
+<p>  But nothing could this furious queene<br>
+    Therewith appeased bee;<br>
+  The cup of deadlye poyson stronge,<br>
+    As she knelt on her knee,</p>
+
+<p>  Shee gave this comelye dame to drinke;<br>
+    Who tooke it in her hand,<br>
+  And from her bended knee arose,<br>
+    And on her feet did stand:</p>
+
+<p>  And casting up her eyes to heaven,<br>
+    She did for mercye calle;<br>
+  And drinking up the poison stronge,<br>
+    Her life she lost withalle.</p>
+
+<p>  And when that death through everye limbe<br>
+    Had showde its greatest spite,<br>
+  Her chiefest foes did plaine confesse<br>
+    Shee was a glorious wight.</p>
+
+<p>  Her body then they did entomb,<br>
+    When life was fled away,<br>
+  At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne,<br>
+    As may be scene this day.</p>
+
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap09">ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE</a></h2>
+<img alt="076.jpg (18K)" src="images/076.jpg" height="166" width="239">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre,<br>
+    And leaves both large and longe,<br>
+  Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrest<br>
+    To heare the small birdes songe.</p>
+
+<p>  The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,<br>
+    Sitting upon the spraye,<br>
+  Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,<br>
+    In the greenwood where he lay.</p>
+
+<p>  Now by my faye, sayd jollye Robin,<br>
+    A sweaven I had this night;<br>
+  I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen,<br>
+    That fast with me can fight.</p>
+
+<p>  Methought they did mee beate and binde,<br>
+    And tooke my bow mee froe;<br>
+  If I be Robin alive in this lande,<br>
+    He be wroken on them towe.</p>
+
+<p>  Sweavens are swift, Master, quoth John,<br>
+    As the wind that blowes ore a hill;<br>
+  For if itt be never so loude this night,<br>
+    To-morrow itt may be still.</p>
+
+<p>  Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,<br>
+    And John shall goe with mee,<br>
+  For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen,<br>
+    In greenwood where the bee.</p>
+
+<p>  Then the cast on their gownes of grene,<br>
+    And tooke theyr bowes each one;<br>
+  And they away to the greene forrest<br>
+    A shooting forth are gone;</p>
+
+<p>  Until they came to the merry greenwood,<br>
+    Where they had gladdest bee,<br>
+  There were the ware of a wight yeoman,<br>
+    His body leaned to a tree.</p>
+
+<p>  A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,<br>
+    Of manye a man the bane;<br>
+  And he was clad in his capull hyde<br>
+    Topp and tayll and mayne.</p>
+
+<p>  Stand you still, master, quoth Litle John,<br>
+    Under this tree so grene,<br>
+  And I will go to yond wight yeoman<br>
+    To know what he doth meane.</p>
+
+<p>  Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,<br>
+    And that I farley finde:<br>
+  How offt send I my men beffore<br>
+    And tarry my selfe behinde?</p>
+
+<p>  It is no cunning a knave to ken,<br>
+    And a man but heare him speake;<br>
+  And itt were not for bursting of my bowe.<br>
+    John, I thy head wold breake.</p>
+
+<p>  As often wordes they breeden bale,<br>
+    So they parted Robin and John;<br>
+  And John is gone to Barnesdale;<br>
+    The gates he knoweth eche one.</p>
+
+<p>  But when he came to Barnesdale,<br>
+    Great heavinesse there hee hadd,<br>
+  For he found tow of his owne fell&ograve;wes<br>
+    Were slaine both in a slade.</p>
+
+<p>  And Scarlette he was flyinge a-foote<br>
+    Fast over stocke and stone,<br>
+  For the sheriffe with seven score men<br>
+    Fast after him is gone.</p>
+
+<p>  One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John,<br>
+    With Christ his might and mayne:<br>
+  Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast,<br>
+    To stopp he shall be fayne.</p>
+
+<p>  Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,<br>
+    And fetteled him to shoote:<br>
+  The bow was made of a tender boughe,<br>
+    And fell down to his foote.</p>
+
+<p>  Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,<br>
+    That ere thou grew on a tree;<br>
+  For now this day thou art my bale,<br>
+    My boote when thou shold bee.</p>
+
+<p>  His shoote it was but loosely shott,<br>
+    Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,<br>
+  For itt mett one of the sheriffes men,<br>
+    Good William a Trent was slaine.</p>
+
+<p>  It had bene better of William a Trent<br>
+    To have bene abed with sorrowe,<br>
+  Than to be that day in the green wood slade<br>
+    To meet with Little Johns arrowe.</p>
+
+<p>  But as it is said, when men be mett<br>
+    Fyve can doe more than three,<br>
+  The sheriffe hath taken little John,<br>
+    And bound him fast to a tree.</p>
+
+<p>  Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,<br>
+    And hanged hye on a hill.<br>
+  But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John,<br>
+    If itt be Christ his will.</p>
+
+<p>  Let us leave talking of Little John,<br>
+    And thinke of Robin Hood,<br>
+  How he is gone to the wight yeoman,<br>
+    Where under the leaves he stood.</p>
+
+<p>  Good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre,<br>
+    Good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he:<br>
+   Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande<br>
+    A good archere thou sholdst bee.</p>
+
+<p>  I am wilfull of my waye, quo' the yeman,<br>
+    And of my morning tyde.<br>
+  He lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin;<br>
+    Good fellow, He be thy guide.</p>
+
+<p>  I seeke an outl&agrave;we, the straunger sayd,<br>
+    Men call him Robin Hood;<br>
+  Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe,<br>
+    Than fortye pound so good.</p>
+
+<p>  Now come with me, thou wighty yeman,<br>
+    And Robin thou soone shalt see:<br>
+  But first let us some pastime find<br>
+    Under the greenwood tree.</p>
+
+<p>  First let us some masterye make<br>
+    Among the woods so even,<br>
+  Wee may chance to meet with Robin Hood<br>
+    Here att some unsett steven.</p>
+
+<p>  They cut them downe two summer shroggs,<br>
+    That grew both under a breere,<br>
+  And sett them threescore rood in twaine<br>
+    To shoot the prickes y-fere:</p>
+
+<p>  Lead on, good fellowe, quoth Robin Hood,<br>
+    Lead on, I doe bidd thee.<br>
+  Nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,<br>
+    My leader thou shalt bee.</p>
+
+<p>  The first time Robin shot at the pricke,<br>
+    He mist but an inch it froe:<br>
+  The yeoman he was an archer good,<br>
+    But he cold never shoote soe.</p>
+
+<p>  The second shoote had the wightye yeman,<br>
+    He shote within the garl&agrave;nde:<br>
+  But Robin he shott far better than hee,<br>
+    For he clave the good pricke wande.</p>
+
+<p>  A blessing upon thy heart, he sayd;<br>
+    Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode;<br>
+  For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,<br>
+    Thou wert better then Robin Hoode.</p>
+
+<p>  Now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he,<br>
+    Under the leaves of lyne.<br>
+  Nay by my faith, quoth bolde Robin,<br>
+    Till thou have told me thine.</p>
+
+<p>  I dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee,<br>
+    And Robin to take Ime sworne;<br>
+  And when I am called by my right name<br>
+    I am Guye of good Gisborne.</p>
+
+<p>  My dwelling is in this wood, sayes Robin,<br>
+    By thee I set right nought:<br>
+  I am Robin Hood of Barn&egrave;sdale,<br>
+    Whom thou so long hast sought.</p>
+
+<p>  He that hath neither beene kithe nor kin,<br>
+    Might have scene a full fayre sight,<br>
+  To see how together these yeomen went<br>
+    With blades both browne and bright.</p>
+
+<p>  To see how these yeomen together they fought<br>
+    Two howres of a summers day:<br>
+  Yet neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy<br>
+    Them fettled to flye away.</p>
+
+<p>  Robin was reachles on a roote,<br>
+    And stumbled at that tyde;<br>
+  And Guy was quick and nimble with-all,<br>
+    And hitt him ore the left side.</p>
+
+<p>  Ah deere Lady, sayd Robin Hood, 'thou<br>
+    That art both mother and may,'<br>
+  I think it was never mans destinye<br>
+    To dye before his day.</p>
+
+<p>  Robin thought on our ladye deere,<br>
+    And soone leapt up againe,<br>
+  And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke,<br>
+    And he Sir Guy hath slayne.</p>
+
+<p>  He took Sir Guys head by the hayre,<br>
+    And sticked itt on his bowes end:<br>
+  Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe,<br>
+    Which thing must have an ende.</p>
+
+<p>  Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,<br>
+    And nicked Sir Guy in the face,<br>
+  That he was never on woman born,<br>
+    Cold tell whose head it was.</p>
+
+<p>  Saies, Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guye,<br>
+    And with me be not wrothe,<br>
+  If thou have had the worst stroked at my hand,<br>
+    Thou shalt have the better clothe.</p>
+
+<p>  Robin did off his gowne of greene,<br>
+    And on Sir Guy did it throwe,<br>
+  And hee put on that capull hyde,<br>
+    That cladd him topp to toe.</p>
+
+<p>  The bowe, the arrowes, and litle home,<br>
+    Now with me I will beare;<br>
+  For I will away to Barnesdale,<br>
+    To see how my men doe fare.</p>
+
+<p>  Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth.<br>
+    And a loud blast in it did blow.<br>
+  That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,<br>
+    As he leaned under a lowe.</p>
+
+<p>  Hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe,<br>
+    I heare now tydings good,<br>
+  For yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blowe,<br>
+    And he hath slaine Robin Hoode.</p>
+
+<p>  Yonder I heare Sir Guyes home blowe,<br>
+    Itt blowes soe well in tyde,<br>
+  And yonder comes that wightye yeoman,<br>
+    Cladd in his capull hyde.</p>
+
+<p>  Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy,<br>
+    Aske what thou wilt of mee.<br>
+  O I will none of thy gold, sayd Robin,<br>
+    Nor I will none of thy fee:</p>
+
+<p>  But now I have slaine the master, he sayes,<br>
+    Let me go strike the knave;<br>
+  This is all the rewarde I aske;<br>
+    Nor noe other will I have.</p>
+
+<p>  Thou art a madman, said the sheriffe,<br>
+    Thou sholdest have had a knights fee:<br>
+  But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,<br>
+    Well granted it shale be.</p>
+
+<p>  When Litle John heard his master speake,<br>
+    Well knewe he it was his steven:<br>
+  Now shall I be looset, quoth Litle John,<br>
+    With Christ his might in heaven.</p>
+
+<p>  Fast Robin hee hyed him to Litle John,<br>
+    He thought to loose him belive;<br>
+  The sheriffe and all his companye<br>
+    Fast after him did drive.<br>
+  Stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd Robin;<br>
+    Why draw you mee soe neere?<br>
+  Itt was never the use in our countrye,<br>
+    Ones shrift another shold heere.</p>
+
+<p>  But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe,<br>
+    And losed John hand and foote,<br>
+  And gave him Sir Guyes bow into his hand,<br>
+    And bade it be his boote.</p>
+
+<p>  Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand,<br>
+    His boltes and arrowes eche one:<br>
+  When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,<br>
+    He fettled him to be gone.</p>
+
+<p>  Towards his house in Nottingham towne<br>
+    He fled full fast away;<br>
+  And soe did all his companye:<br>
+    Not one behind wold stay.</p>
+
+<p>  But he cold neither runne soe fast,<br>
+    Nor away soe fast cold ryde,<br>
+  But Litle John with an arrowe soe broad<br>
+    He shott him into the 'back'-syde.</p>
+
+
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap10">THE BOY &amp; THE MANTLE</a></h2>
+<img alt="087.jpg (11K)" src="images/087.jpg" height="160" width="244">
+<br><br>
+<a name="mantle"></a>
+<img alt="mantle.jpg (152K)" src="images/mantle.jpg" height="1027" width="750">
+
+<p>  In Carleile dwelt King Arthur,<br>
+    A prince of passing might;<br>
+  And there maintain'd his table round,<br>
+    Beset with many a knight.</p>
+
+<p>  And there he kept his Christmas<br>
+    With mirth and princely cheare,<br>
+  When, lo! a straunge and cunning boy<br>
+    Before him did appeare.</p>
+
+<p>  A kirtle and a mantle<br>
+    This boy had him upon,<br>
+  With brooches, rings, and owches,<br>
+    Full daintily bedone.</p>
+
+<p>  He had a sarke of silk<br>
+    About his middle meet;<br>
+  And thus, with seemely curtesy,<br>
+    He did King Arthur greet.</p>
+
+<p>  "God speed thee, brave King Arthur,<br>
+    Thus feasting in thy bowre;<br>
+  And Guenever thy goodly queen,<br>
+    That fair and peerlesse flowre.</p>
+
+<p>  "Ye gallant lords, and lordings,<br>
+    I wish you all take heed,<br>
+  Lest, what ye deem a blooming rose,<br>
+    Should prove a cankred weed."</p>
+
+<p>  Then straitway from his bosome<br>
+    A little wand he drew;<br>
+  And with it eke a mantle<br>
+    Of wondrous shape and hew.</p>
+
+<p>  "Now have you here, King Arthur,<br>
+   Have this here of mee,<br>
+  And give unto thy comely queen,<br>
+   All-shapen as you see.</p>
+
+<p>  "No wife it shall become,<br>
+    That once hath been to blame."<br>
+  Then every knight in Arthur's court<br>
+    Slye glaunced at his dame.</p>
+
+<p>  And first came Lady Guenever,<br>
+    The mantle she must trye.<br>
+  This dame, she was new-fangled,<br>
+    And of a roving eye.</p>
+
+<p>  When she had tane the mantle,<br>
+    And all was with it cladde,<br>
+  From top to toe it shiver'd down,<br>
+    As tho' with sheers beshradde.</p>
+
+<p>  One while it was too long,<br>
+    Another while too short,<br>
+  And wrinkled on her shoulders<br>
+    In most unseemly sort.</p>
+
+<p>  Now green, now red it seemed,<br>
+    Then all of sable hue.<br>
+  "Beshrew me," quoth King Arthur,<br>
+    "I think thou beest not true."</p>
+
+<p>  Down she threw the mantle,<br>
+    Ne longer would not stay;<br>
+  But, storming like a fury,<br>
+    To her chamber flung away.</p>
+
+<p>  She curst the whoreson weaver,<br>
+    That had the mantle wrought:<br>
+  And doubly curst the froward impe,<br>
+    Who thither had it brought.</p>
+
+<p>  "I had rather live in desarts<br>
+    Beneath the green-wood tree;<br>
+  Than here, base king, among thy groomes,<br>
+    The sport of them and thee."</p>
+
+<p>  Sir Kay call'd forth his lady,<br>
+    And bade her to come near:<br>
+  "Yet, dame, if thou be guilty,<br>
+    I pray thee now forbear."</p>
+
+<p>  This lady, pertly gigling,<br>
+    With forward step came on,<br>
+  And boldly to the little boy<br>
+    With fearless face is gone.</p>
+
+<p>  When she had tane the mantle,<br>
+    With purpose for to wear;<br>
+  It shrunk up to her shoulder,<br>
+    And left her b--- side bare.</p>
+
+<p>  Then every merry knight,<br>
+    That was in Arthur's court,<br>
+  Gib'd, and laught, and flouted,<br>
+    To see that pleasant sport.</p>
+
+<p>  Downe she threw the mantle,<br>
+    No longer bold or gay,<br>
+  But with a face all pale and wan,<br>
+    To her chamber slunk away.</p>
+
+<p>  Then forth came an old knight,<br>
+    A pattering o'er his creed;<br>
+  And proffer'd to the little boy<br>
+    Five nobles to his meed;</p>
+
+<p>  "And all the time of Christmass<br>
+    Plumb-porridge shall be thine,<br>
+  If thou wilt let my lady fair<br>
+    Within the mantle shine."</p>
+
+<p>  A saint his lady seemed,<br>
+    With step demure and slow,<br>
+  And gravely to the mantle<br>
+    With mincing pace doth goe.</p>
+
+<p>  When she the same had taken,<br>
+    That was so fine and thin,<br>
+  It shrivell'd all about her,<br>
+    And show'd her dainty skin.</p>
+
+<p>  Ah! little did HER mincing,<br>
+    Or HIS long prayers bestead;<br>
+  She had no more hung on her,<br>
+    Than a tassel and a thread.</p>
+
+<p>  Down she threwe the mantle,<br>
+    With terror and dismay,<br>
+  And, with a face of scarlet,<br>
+    To her chamber hyed away.</p>
+
+<p>  Sir Cradock call'd his lady,<br>
+    And bade her to come neare:<br>
+  "Come, win this mantle, lady,<br>
+    And do me credit here.</p>
+
+<p>  "Come, win this mantle, lady,<br>
+    For now it shall be thine,<br>
+  If thou hast never done amiss,<br>
+    Sith first I made thee mine."</p>
+
+<p>  The lady, gently blushing,<br>
+    With modest grace came on,<br>
+  And now to trye the wondrous charm<br>
+    Courageously is gone.</p>
+
+<p>  When she had tane the mantle,<br>
+    And put it on her backe,<br>
+  About the hem it seemed<br>
+    To wrinkle and to cracke.</p>
+
+<p>  "Lye still," shee cryed, "O mantle!<br>
+    And shame me not for nought,<br>
+  I'll freely own whate'er amiss,<br>
+    Or blameful I have wrought.</p>
+
+<p>  "Once I kist Sir Cradocke<br>
+    Beneathe the green-wood tree:<br>
+  Once I kist Sir Cradocke's mouth<br>
+    Before he married mee."</p>
+
+<p>  When thus she had her shriven,<br>
+    And her worst fault had told,<br>
+  The mantle soon became her<br>
+    Right comely as it shold.</p>
+
+<p>  Most rich and fair of colour,<br>
+    Like gold it glittering shone:<br>
+  And much the knights in Arthur's court<br>
+    Admir'd her every one.</p>
+
+<p>  Then towards King Arthur's table<br>
+    The boy he turn'd his eye:<br>
+  Where stood a boar's head garnished<br>
+    With bayes and rosemarye.</p>
+
+<p>  When thrice he o'er the boar's head<br>
+    His little wand had drawne,<br>
+  Quoth he, "There's never a cuckold's knife<br>
+    Can carve this head of brawne."</p>
+
+<p>  Then some their whittles rubbed<br>
+    On whetstone, and on hone:<br>
+  Some threwe them under the table,<br>
+    And swore that they had none.</p>
+
+<p>  Sir Cradock had a little knife,<br>
+    Of steel and iron made;<br>
+  And in an instant thro' the skull<br>
+    He thrust the shining blade.</p>
+
+<p>  He thrust the shining blade<br>
+    Full easily and fast;<br>
+  And every knight in Arthur's court<br>
+    A morsel had to taste.</p>
+
+<p>  The boy brought forth a horne,<br>
+    All golden was the rim:<br>
+  Saith he, "No cuckolde ever can<br>
+    Set mouth unto the brim.</p>
+
+<p>  "No cuckold can this little horne<br>
+    Lift fairly to his head;<br>
+  But or on this, or that side,<br>
+    He shall the liquor shed."</p>
+
+<p>  Some shed it on their shoulder,<br>
+    Some shed it on their thigh;<br>
+  And hee that could not hit his mouth,<br>
+    Was sure to hit his eye.</p>
+
+<p>  Thus he, that was a cuckold,<br>
+    Was known of every man:<br>
+  But Cradock lifted easily,<br>
+    And wan the golden can.</p>
+
+<p>  Thus boar's head, horn and mantle,<br>
+    Were this fair couple's meed:<br>
+  And all such constant lovers,<br>
+    God send them well to speed.</p>
+
+<p>  Then down in rage came Guenever,<br>
+    And thus could spightful say,<br>
+  "Sir Cradock's wife most wrongfully<br>
+    Hath borne the prize away.</p>
+
+<p>  "See yonder shameless woman,<br>
+    That makes herselfe so clean:<br>
+  Yet from her pillow taken<br>
+    Thrice five gallants have been.</p>
+
+<p>  "Priests, clarkes, and wedded men,<br>
+    Have her lewd pillow prest:<br>
+  Yet she the wonderous prize forsooth<br>
+    Must beare from all the rest."</p>
+
+<p>  Then bespake the little boy,<br>
+    Who had the same in hold:<br>
+  "Chastize thy wife, King Arthur,<br>
+    Of speech she is too bold:</p>
+
+<p>  "Of speech she is too bold,<br>
+    Of carriage all too free;<br>
+  Sir King, she hath within thy hall<br>
+    A cuckold made of thee.</p>
+
+<p>  "All frolick light and wanton<br>
+    She hath her carriage borne:<br>
+  And given thee for a kingly crown<br>
+    To wear a cuckold's horne."</p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap11">THE HEIR OF LINNE</a></h2>
+<img alt="096.jpg (13K)" src="images/096.jpg" height="151" width="237">
+<br><br>
+<h3>PART THE FIRST</h3>
+
+<p>  Lithe and listen, gentlemen,<br>
+    To sing a song I will beginne:<br>
+  It is of a lord of faire Scotland,<br>
+    Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne.</p>
+
+<p>  His father was a right good lord,<br>
+    His mother a lady of high degree;<br>
+  But they, alas! were dead, him froe,<br>
+    And he lov'd keeping companie.</p>
+
+<p>  To spend the daye with merry cheare,<br>
+    To drinke and revell every night,<br>
+  To card and dice from eve to morne,<br>
+    It was, I ween, his hearts delighte.</p>
+
+<p>  To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare,<br>
+    To alwaye spend and never spare,<br>
+  I wott, an' it were the king himselfe,<br>
+    Of gold and fee he mote be bare.</p>
+
+<p>  Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Linne<br>
+    Till all his gold is gone and spent;<br>
+  And he maun sell his landes so broad,<br>
+    His house, and landes, and all his rent.</p>
+
+<p>  His father had a keen stewarde,<br>
+    And John o' the Scales was called hee:<br>
+  But John is become a gentel-man,<br>
+    And John has gott both gold and fee.</p>
+
+<p>  Sayes, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne,<br>
+    Let nought disturb thy merry cheere;<br>
+  Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad,<br>
+    Good store of gold Ile give thee heere,</p>
+
+<p>  My gold is gone, my money is spent;<br>
+    My lande nowe take it unto thee:<br>
+  Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales,<br>
+    And thine for aye my lande shall bee.</p>
+
+<p>  Then John he did him to record draw,<br>
+    And John he cast him a gods-pennie;<br>
+  But for every pounde that John agreed,<br>
+    The lande, I wis, was well worth three.</p>
+
+<p>  He told him the gold upon the borde,<br>
+    He was right glad his land to winne;<br>
+  The gold is thine, the land is mine,<br>
+    And now Ile be the lord of Linne.</p>
+
+<p>  Thus he hath sold his land soe broad,<br>
+    Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne,<br>
+  All but a poore and lonesome lodge,<br>
+    That stood far off in a lonely glenne.</p>
+
+<p>  For soe he to his father hight.<br>
+    My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee,<br>
+  Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad,<br>
+    And thou wilt spend thy gold so free:</p>
+
+<p>  But sweare me nowe upon the roode,<br>
+    That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend;<br>
+  For when all the world doth frown on thee,<br>
+    Thou there shalt find a faithful friend.</p>
+
+<p>  The heire of Linne is full of golde:<br>
+    And come with me, my friends, sayd hee,<br>
+  Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make,<br>
+    And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee.</p>
+
+<p>  They ranted, drank, and merry made,<br>
+    Till all his gold it waxed thinne;<br>
+  And then his friendes they slunk away;<br>
+    They left the unthrifty heire of Linne.</p>
+
+<p>  He had never a penny in his purse,<br>
+    Never a penny left but three,<br>
+  And one was brass, another was lead,<br>
+    And another it was white money.</p>
+
+<p>  Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne,<br>
+    Nowe well-aday, and woe is mee,<br>
+  For when I was the lord of Linne,<br>
+    I never wanted gold nor fee.</p>
+
+<p>  But many a trustye friend have I,<br>
+    And why shold I feel dole or care?<br>
+  Ile borrow of them all by turnes,<br>
+    Soe need I not be never bare.</p>
+
+<p>  But one, I wis, was not at home;<br>
+    Another had payd his gold away;<br>
+  Another call'd him thriftless loone,<br>
+    And bade him sharpely wend his way.</p>
+
+<p>  Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne,<br>
+    Now well-aday, and woe is me;<br>
+  For when I had my landes so broad,<br>
+    On me they liv'd right merrilee.</p>
+
+<p>  To beg my bread from door to door<br>
+    I wis, it were a brenning shame:<br>
+  To rob and steale it were a sinne:<br>
+    To worke my limbs I cannot frame.</p>
+
+<p>  Now Ile away to lonesome lodge,<br>
+    For there my father bade me wend;<br>
+  When all the world should frown on mee<br>
+    I there shold find a trusty friend.</p>
+
+<br><br>
+<h3>PART THE SECOND</h3>
+
+<p>  Away then hyed the heire of Linne<br>
+    Oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne,<br>
+  Untill he came to lonesome lodge,<br>
+    That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne.</p>
+
+<p>  He looked up, he looked downe,<br>
+    In hope some comfort for to winne:<br>
+  But bare and lothly were the walles.<br>
+    Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne.</p>
+
+<p>  The little windowe dim and darke<br>
+    Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe;<br>
+  No shimmering sunn here ever shone;<br>
+    No halesome breeze here ever blew.</p>
+
+<p>  No chair, ne table he mote spye,<br>
+    No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed,<br>
+  Nought save a rope with renning noose,<br>
+    That dangling hung up o'er his head.</p>
+
+<p>  And over it in broad letters,<br>
+    These words were written so plain to see:<br>
+  "Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all,<br>
+    And brought thyselfe to penurie?</p>
+
+<p>  "All this my boding mind misgave,<br>
+    I therefore left this trusty friend:<br>
+  Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace,<br>
+    And all thy shame and sorrows end."</p>
+
+<p>  Sorely shent wi' this rebuke,<br>
+    Sorely shent was the heire of Linne,<br>
+  His heart, I wis, was near to brast     With guilt and sorrowe,
+shame<br>
+and sinne.</p>
+
+<p>  Never a word spake the heire of Linne,<br>
+    Never a word he spake but three:<br>
+  "This is a trusty friend indeed,<br>
+    And is right welcome unto mee."</p>
+
+<p>  Then round his necke the corde he drewe,<br>
+    And sprung aloft with his bodie:<br>
+  When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine,<br>
+    And to the ground came tumbling hee.</p>
+
+<p>  Astonyed lay the heire of Linne,<br>
+    Ne knewe if he were live or dead:<br>
+  At length he looked, and saw a bille,<br>
+    And in it a key of gold so redd.</p>
+
+<p>  He took the bill, and lookt it on,<br>
+    Strait good comfort found he there:<br>
+  It told him of a hole in the wall,<br>
+    In which there stood three chests in-fere.</p>
+
+<p>  Two were full of the beaten golde,<br>
+   The third was full of white money;<br>
+  And over them in broad letters<br>
+   These words were written so plaine to see:</p>
+
+<p>  "Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere;<br>
+   Amend thy life and follies past;<br>
+  For but thou amend thee of thy life,<br>
+   That rope must be thy end at last."</p>
+
+<p>  And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne;<br>
+   And let it bee, but if I amend:<br>
+  For here I will make mine avow,<br>
+   This reade shall guide me to the end.</p>
+
+<p>  Away then went with a merry cheare,<br>
+   Away then went the heire of Linne;<br>
+  I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne,<br>
+   Till John o' the Scales house he did winne.</p>
+
+<p>  And when he came to John o' the Scales,<br>
+   Upp at the speere then looked hee;<br>
+  There sate three lords upon a rowe,<br>
+   Were drinking of the wine so free.</p>
+
+<p>  And John himself sate at the bord-head,<br>
+   Because now lord of Linne was hee.<br>
+  I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales,<br>
+   One forty pence for to lend mee.</p>
+
+<p>  Away, away, thou thriftless loone;<br>
+    Away, away, this may not bee:<br>
+  For Christs curse on my head, he sayd,<br>
+    If ever I trust thee one penn&igrave;e.</p>
+
+<p>  Then bespake the heire of Linne,<br>
+    To John o' the Scales wife then spake he:<br>
+  Madame, some almes on me bestowe,<br>
+    I pray for sweet Saint Charit&igrave;e.</p>
+
+<p>  Away, away, thou thriftless loone,<br>
+    I swear thou gettest no almes of mee;<br>
+  For if we shold hang any losel heere,<br>
+    The first we wold begin with thee.</p>
+
+<p>  Then bespake a good fell&ograve;we,<br>
+    Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord<br>
+  Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne;<br>
+    Some time thou wast a well good lord;</p>
+
+<p>  Some time a good fellow thou hast been,<br>
+    And sparedst not thy gold nor fee;<br>
+  Therefore He lend thee forty pence,<br>
+    And other forty if need bee.</p>
+
+<p>  And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales,<br>
+    To let him sit in thy companie:<br>
+  For well I wot thou hadst his land,<br>
+    And a good bargain it was to thee.</p>
+
+<p>  Up then spake him John o' the Scales,<br>
+    All wood he answer'd him againe:<br>
+  Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd,<br>
+    But I did lose by that barg&agrave;ine.</p>
+
+<p>  And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne,<br>
+    Before these lords so faire and free,<br>
+  Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape,<br>
+    By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.</p>
+
+<p>  I draw you to record, lords, he said.<br>
+    With that he cast him a gods pennie:<br>
+  Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne,<br>
+    And here, good John, is thy mon&egrave;y.</p>
+
+<p>  And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold,<br>
+    And layd them down upon the bord:<br>
+  All woe begone was John o' the Scales,<br>
+    Soe shent he cold say never a word.</p>
+
+<p>  He told him forth the good red gold,<br>
+    He told it forth with mickle dinne.<br>
+  The gold is thine, the land is mine,<br>
+    And now Ime againe the lord of Linne.</p>
+
+<p>  Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fell&ograve;we,<br>
+    Forty pence thou didst lend me:<br>
+  Now I am againe the lord of Linne,<br>
+    And forty pounds I will give thee.</p>
+
+<p>  He make the keeper of my forrest,<br>
+    Both of the wild deere and the tame;<br>
+  For but I reward thy bounteous heart,<br>
+    I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.</p>
+
+<p>  Now welladay! sayth Joan o' the Scales:<br>
+    Now welladay! and woe is my life!<br>
+  Yesterday I was lady of Linne,<br>
+    Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife.</p>
+
+<p>  Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne;<br>
+    Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee:<br>
+  Christs curse light on me, if ever again<br>
+    I bring my lands in jeopardy.</p>
+
+<img alt="105.jpg (3K)" src="images/105.jpg" height="124" width="90">
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap12">KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID</a></h2>
+<img alt="106.jpg (8K)" src="images/106.jpg" height="122" width="230">
+<br><br>
+<a name="cophetua"></a>
+<img alt="cophetua.jpg (147K)" src="images/cophetua.jpg" height="991" width="750">
+
+<p>  I Read that once in Affrica<br>
+    A princely wight did raine,<br>
+  Who had to name Cophetua,<br>
+    As poets they did faine:<br>
+  From natures lawes he did decline,<br>
+  For sure he was not of my mind.<br>
+  He cared not for women-kinde,<br>
+    But did them all disdaine.<br>
+  But, marke, what hapened on a day,<br>
+  As he out of his window lay,<br>
+  He saw a beggar all in gray,<br>
+    The which did cause his paine.</p>
+
+<p>  The blinded boy, that shootes so trim,<br>
+    From heaven downe did hie;<br>
+  He drew a dart and shot at him,<br>
+    In place where he did lye:<br>
+  Which soone did pierse him to the quicke.<br>
+  And when he felt the arrow pricke,<br>
+  Which in his tender heart did sticke,<br>
+    He looketh as he would dye.<br>
+  What sudden chance is this, quoth he,<br>
+  That I to love must subject be,<br>
+  Which never thereto would agree,<br>
+    But still did it defie?</p>
+
+<p>  Then from the window he did come,<br>
+    And laid him on his bed,<br>
+  A thousand heapes of care did runne<br>
+    Within his troubled head:<br>
+  For now he meanes to crave her love,<br>
+  And now he seekes which way to proove<br>
+  How he his fancie might remoove,<br>
+    And not this beggar wed.<br>
+  But Cupid had him so in snare,<br>
+  That this poor begger must prepare<br>
+  A salve to cure him of his care,<br>
+    Or els he would be dead.</p>
+
+<p>  And, as he musing thus did lye,<br>
+    He thought for to devise<br>
+  How he might have her companye,<br>
+    That so did 'maze his eyes.<br>
+  In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life;<br>
+  For surely thou shalt be my wife,<br>
+  Or else this hand with bloody knife<br>
+    The Gods shall sure suffice.<br>
+  Then from his bed he soon arose,<br>
+  And to his pallace gate he goes;<br>
+  Full little then this begger knowes<br>
+    When she the king espies.</p>
+
+<p>  The Gods preserve your majesty,<br>
+    The beggers all gan cry:<br>
+  Vouchsafe to give your charity<br>
+    Our childrens food to buy.<br>
+  The king to them his pursse did cast,<br>
+    And they to part it made great haste;<br>
+  This silly woman was the last<br>
+    That after them did hye.<br>
+  The king he cal'd her back againe,<br>
+  And unto her he gave his chaine;<br>
+  And said, With us you shal remaine<br>
+    Till such time as we dye:</p>
+
+<p>  For thou, quoth he, shalt be my wife,<br>
+    And honoured for my queene;<br>
+  With thee I meane to lead my life,<br>
+    As shortly shall be seene:<br>
+  Our wedding shall appointed be,<br>
+  And every thing in its degree:<br>
+  Come on, quoth he, and follow me,<br>
+    Thou shalt go shift thee cleane.<br>
+  What is thy name, faire maid? quoth he.<br>
+  Penelophon, O king, quoth she;<br>
+  With that she made a lowe courtsey;<br>
+    A trim one as I weene.</p>
+
+<p>  Thus hand in hand along they walke<br>
+    Unto the king's pallace:<br>
+  The king with curteous comly talke<br>
+    This beggar doth imbrace:<br>
+  The begger blusheth scarlet red,<br>
+  And straight againe as pale as lead,<br>
+  But not a word at all she said,<br>
+    She was in such amaze.<br>
+  At last she spake with trembling voyce,<br>
+  And said, O king, I doe rejoyce<br>
+  That you wil take me from your choyce,<br>
+    And my degree's so base.</p>
+
+<p>  And when the wedding day was come,<br>
+    The king commanded strait<br>
+  The noblemen both all and some<br>
+    Upon the queene to wait.<br>
+  And she behaved herself that day,<br>
+  As if she had never walkt the way;<br>
+  She had forgot her gown of gray,<br>
+    Which she did weare of late.<br>
+  The proverbe old is come to passe,<br>
+  The priest, when he begins his masse,<br>
+  Forgets that ever clerke he was;<br>
+    He knowth not his estate.</p>
+
+<p>  Here you may read, Cophetua,<br>
+    Though long time fancie-fed,<br>
+  Compelled by the blinded boy<br>
+    The begger for to wed:<br>
+  He that did lovers lookes disdaine,<br>
+  To do the same was glad and faine,<br>
+  Or else he would himselfe have slaine,<br>
+  In storie, as we read.<br>
+    Disdaine no whit, O lady deere,<br>
+    But pitty now thy servant heere,<br>
+    Least that it hap to thee this yeare,<br>
+      As to that king it did.</p>
+
+<p>  And thus they led a quiet life<br>
+    Duringe their princely raigne;<br>
+  And in a tombe were buried both,<br>
+    As writers sheweth plaine.<br>
+  The lords they tooke it grievously,<br>
+  The ladies tooke it heavily,<br>
+  The commons cryed pitiously,<br>
+    Their death to them was paine,<br>
+    Their fame did sound so passingly,<br>
+    That it did pierce the starry sky,<br>
+    And throughout all the world did flye<br>
+      To every princes realme.</p>
+
+
+<img alt="110.jpg (3K)" src="images/110.jpg" height="126" width="72">
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap13">SIR ANDREW BARTON</a></h2>
+<img alt="111.jpg (16K)" src="images/111.jpg" height="162" width="238">
+<br><br>
+
+
+<p>  'When Flora with her fragrant flowers<br>
+    Bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye,<br>
+  And Neptune with his daintye showers<br>
+    Came to present the monthe of Maye;'<br>
+  King Henrye rode to take the ayre,<br>
+    Over the river of Thames past hee;<br>
+  When eighty merchants of London came,<br>
+    And downe they knelt upon their knee.</p>
+
+<p>  "O yee are welcome, rich merchants;<br>
+    Good saylors, welcome unto mee."<br>
+  They swore by the rood, they were saylors good,<br>
+    But rich merch&agrave;nts they cold not bee:<br>
+  "To France nor Flanders dare we pass:<br>
+    Nor Bourdeaux voyage dare we fare;<br>
+  And all for a rover that lyes on the seas,<br>
+    Who robbs us of our merchant ware."</p>
+
+<p>  King Henrye frowned, and turned him rounde,<br>
+    And swore by the Lord, that was mickle of might,<br>
+  "I thought he had not beene in the world,<br>
+    Durst have wrought England such unright."<br>
+  The merchants sighed, and said, alas!<br>
+    And thus they did their answer frame,<br>
+  He is a proud Scott, that robbs on the seas,<br>
+    And Sir Andrewe Barton is his name.</p>
+
+<p>  The king lookt over his left shoulder,<br>
+    And an angrye look then looked hee:<br>
+  "Have I never a lorde in all my realme,<br>
+    Will feitch yond tray tor unto me?"<br>
+  Yea, that dare I; Lord Howard sayes;<br>
+    Yea, that dare I with heart and hand;<br>
+  If it please your grace to give me leave,<br>
+    Myselfe wil be the only man.</p>
+
+<p>  Thou art but yong; the kyng replyed:<br>
+    Yond Scott hath numbered manye a yeare.<br>
+  "Trust me, my liege, lie make him quail,<br>
+    Or before my prince I will never appeare."<br>
+  Then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have,<br>
+    And chuse them over my realme so free;<br>
+  Besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes,<br>
+    To guide the great shipp on the sea.</p>
+
+<p>  The first man, that Lord Howard chose,<br>
+    Was the ablest gunner in all the realm,<br>
+  Thoughe he was three score yeeres and ten;<br>
+    Good Peter Simon was his name.<br>
+  Peter, sais hee, I must to the sea,<br>
+    To bring home a traytor live or dead:<br>
+  Before all others I have chosen thee;<br>
+    Of a hundred gunners to be the head.</p>
+
+<p>  If you, my lord, have chosen mee<br>
+    Of a hundred gunners to be the head,<br>
+  Then hang me up on your maine-mast tree,<br>
+    If I misse my marke one shilling bread.<br>
+  My lord then chose a boweman rare,<br>
+    "Whose active hands had gained fame."<br>
+  In Yorkshire was this gentleman borne,<br>
+    And William Horseley was his name.</p>
+
+<p>  Horseley, said he, I must with speede<br>
+    Go seeke a traytor on the sea,<br>
+  And now of a hundred bowemen brave<br>
+    To be the head I have chosen thee.<br>
+  If you, quoth hee, have chosen mee<br>
+    Of a hundred bowemen to be the head<br>
+  On your main-mast He hanged bee,<br>
+    If I miss twelvescore one penny bread.</p>
+
+<p>  With pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold,<br>
+    This noble Howard is gone to the sea;<br>
+  With a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare,<br>
+    Out at Thames mouth sayled he.<br>
+  And days he scant had sayled three,<br>
+    Upon the 'voyage,' he tooke in hand,<br>
+  But there he mett with a noble shipp,<br>
+    And stoutely made itt stay and stand.</p>
+
+<p>  Thou must tell me, Lord Howard said,<br>
+    Now who thou art, and what's thy name;<br>
+  And shewe me where they dwelling is:<br>
+    And whither bound, and whence thou came.<br>
+  My name is Henry Hunt, quoth hee<br>
+    With a heavye heart, and a carefull mind;<br>
+  I and my shipp doe both belong<br>
+    To the Newcastle, that stands upon Tyne.</p>
+
+<p>  Hast thou not heard, nowe, Henrye Hunt,<br>
+    As thou hast sayled by daye and by night,<br>
+  Of a Scottish rover on the seas;<br>
+    Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight!<br>
+  Then ever he sighed, and said alas!<br>
+    With a grieved mind, and well away!<br>
+  But over-well I knowe that wight,<br>
+    I was his prisoner yesterday.</p>
+
+<p>  As I was sayling uppon the sea,<br>
+    A Burdeaux voyage for to fare;<br>
+  To his hach-borde he clasped me,<br>
+    And robd me of all my merchant ware:<br>
+  And mickle debts, God wot, I owe,<br>
+    And every man will have his owne;<br>
+  And I am nowe to London bounde,<br>
+    Of our gracious king to beg a boone.</p>
+
+<p>  That shall not need, Lord Howard sais;<br>
+    Lett me but once that robber see,<br>
+  For every penny tane thee froe<br>
+    It shall be doubled shillings three.<br>
+  Nowe God forefend, the merchant said,<br>
+    That you should seek soe far amisse!<br>
+  God keepe you out of that traitors hands!<br>
+    Full litle ye wott what a man hee is.</p>
+
+<p>  Hee is brasse within, and steele without,<br>
+    With beames on his topcastle stronge;<br>
+  And eighteen pieces of ordinance<br>
+    He carries on each side along:<br>
+  And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight,<br>
+    St. Andrewes crosse that is his guide;<br>
+  His pinnace beareth ninescore men,<br>
+    And fifteen canons on each side.</p>
+
+<p>  Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one;<br>
+    I sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall;<br>
+  He wold overcome them everye one,<br>
+    If once his beames they doe downe fall.<br>
+  This is cold comfort, sais my lord,<br>
+    To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea:<br>
+  Yet He bring him and his ship to shore,<br>
+    Or to Scottland hee shall carrye mee.</p>
+
+<p>  Then a noble gunner you must have,<br>
+    And he must aim well with his ee,<br>
+  And sinke his pinnace into the sea,<br>
+    Or else hee never orecome will bee:<br>
+  And if you chance his shipp to borde,<br>
+    This counsel I must give withall,<br>
+  Let no man to his topcastle goe<br>
+    To strive to let his beams downe fall.</p>
+
+<p>  And seven pieces of ordinance,<br>
+    I pray your honour lend to mee,<br>
+  On each side of my shipp along,<br>
+    And I will lead you on the sea.<br>
+  A glasse He sett, that may be seene<br>
+    Whether you sail by day or night;<br>
+  And to-morrowe, I sweare, by nine of the clocke<br>
+    You shall meet with Sir Andrewe Barton knight.</p>
+
+<p>  THE SECOND PART</p>
+
+<p>  The merchant sett my lorde a glasse<br>
+    Soe well apparent in his sight,<br>
+  And on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke,<br>
+    He shewed him Sir Andrewe Barton knight.<br>
+  His hachebord it was 'gilt' with gold,<br>
+    Soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee:<br>
+  Nowe by my faith, Lord Howarde sais,<br>
+    This is a gallant sight to see.</p>
+
+<p>  Take in your ancyents, standards eke,<br>
+    So close that no man may them see;<br>
+  And put me forth a white willowe wand,<br>
+    As merchants use to sayle the sea.<br>
+  But they stirred neither top, nor mast;<br>
+    Stoutly they past Sir Andrew by.<br>
+  What English churles are yonder, he sayd,<br>
+    That can soe little curtesye?</p>
+
+<p>  Now by the roode, three yeares and more<br>
+    I have beene admirall over the sea;<br>
+  And never an English nor Portingall<br>
+    Without my leave can passe this way.<br>
+  Then called he forth his stout pinnace;<br>
+    "Fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee:<br>
+  I sweare by the masse, yon English churles<br>
+    Shall all hang att my maine-mast tree."</p>
+
+<p>  With that the pinnace itt shot off,<br>
+    Full well Lord Howard might it ken;<br>
+  For itt stroke down my lord's fore mast,<br>
+    And killed fourteen of his men.<br>
+  Come hither, Simon, sayes my lord,<br>
+    Looke that thy word be true, thou said;<br>
+  For at my maine-mast thou shalt hang,<br>
+    If thou misse thy marke one shilling bread.</p>
+
+<p>  Simon was old, but his heart itt was bold;<br>
+    His ordinance he laid right lowe;<br>
+  He put in chaine full nine yardes long,<br>
+    With other great shott lesse, and moe;<br>
+  And he lette goe his great gunnes shott:<br>
+    Soe well he settled itt with his ee,<br>
+  The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe,<br>
+    He see his pinnace sunke in the sea.</p>
+
+<p>  And when he saw his pinnace sunke,<br>
+    Lord, how his heart with rage did swell!<br>
+  "Nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon;<br>
+    Ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell."<br>
+  When my lord sawe Sir Andrewe loose,<br>
+    Within his heart he was full faine:<br>
+  "Now spread your ancyents, strike up your drummes,<br>
+    Sound all your trumpetts out amaine."</p>
+
+<p>  Fight on, my men, Sir Andrewe sais,<br>
+    Weale howsoever this geere will sway;<br>
+  Itt is my Lord Admirall of England,<br>
+    Is come to seeke mee on the sea.<br>
+  Simon had a sonne, who shott right well,<br>
+    That did Sir Andrewe mickle scare;<br>
+  In att his decke he gave a shott,<br>
+    Killed threescore of his men of warre.</p>
+
+<p>  Then Henrye Hunt with rigour hott<br>
+    Came bravely on the other side,<br>
+  Soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree,<br>
+    And killed fourscore men beside.<br>
+  Nowe, out alas! Sir Andrewe cryed,<br>
+    What may a man now thinke, or say?<br>
+  Yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee,<br>
+    He was my prisoner yesterday.</p>
+
+<p>  Come hither to me, thou Gordon good,<br>
+    That aye wast readye att my call:<br>
+  I will give thee three hundred markes,<br>
+    If thou wilt let my beames downe fall.<br>
+  Lord Howard hee then calld in haste,<br>
+    "Horseley see thou be true in stead;<br>
+  For thou shalt at the maine-mast hang,<br>
+    If thou misse twelvescore one penny bread."</p>
+
+<p>  Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree,<br>
+    He swarved it with might and maine;<br>
+  But Horseley with a bearing arrowe,<br>
+    Stroke the Gordon through the braine;<br>
+  And he fell unto the haches again,<br>
+    And sore his deadlye wounde did bleed:<br>
+  Then word went through Sir Andrews men,<br>
+    How that the Gordon hee was dead.</p>
+
+<p>  Come hither to mee, James Hambilton,<br>
+    Thou art my only sisters sonne,<br>
+  If thou wilt let my beames downe fall<br>
+    Six hundred nobles thou hast wonne.<br>
+  With that he swarved the maine-mast tree,<br>
+    He swarved it with nimble art;<br>
+  But Horseley with a broad arr&ograve;we<br>
+    Pierced the Hambilton thorough the heart:</p>
+
+<p>  And downe he fell upon the deck,<br>
+    That with his blood did streame amaine:<br>
+  Then every Scott cryed, Well-away!<br>
+    Alas! a comelye youth is slaine.<br>
+  All woe begone was Sir Andrew then,<br>
+    With griefe and rage his heart did swell:<br>
+  "Go fetch me forth my armour of proofe,<br>
+    For I will to the topcastle mysell."</p>
+
+<p>  "Goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe;<br>
+    That gilded is with gold soe cleare:<br>
+  God be with my brother John of Barton!<br>
+    Against the Portingalls hee it ware;<br>
+  And when he had on this armour of proofe,<br>
+    He was a gallant sight to see:<br>
+  Ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight,<br>
+    My deere brother, could cope with thee."</p>
+
+<p>  Come hither Horseley, sayes my lord,<br>
+    And looke your shaft that itt goe right,<br>
+  Shoot a good shoote in time of need,<br>
+    And for it thou shalt be made a knight.<br>
+  Ile shoot my best, quoth Horseley then,<br>
+    Your honour shall see, with might and maine;<br>
+  But if I were hanged at your maine-mast,<br>
+    I have now left but arrowes twaine.</p>
+
+<p>  Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree,<br>
+   With right good will he swarved then:<br>
+  Upon his breast did Horseley hitt,<br>
+    But the arrow bounded back agen.<br>
+  Then Horseley spyed a privye place<br>
+    With a perfect eye in a secrette part;<br>
+  Under the spole of his right arme<br>
+    He smote Sir Andrew to the heart.</p>
+
+<p>  "Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes,<br>
+    "A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine;<br>
+  He but lye downe and bleede a while,<br>
+    And then He rise and fight againe.<br>
+  Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes,<br>
+    "And never flinch before the foe;<br>
+  And stand fast by St. Andrewes crosse<br>
+    Until you heare my whistle blowe."</p>
+
+<p>  They never heard his whistle blow--<br>
+    Which made their hearts waxe sore adread:<br>
+  Then Horseley sayd, Aboard, my lord,<br>
+    For well I wott Sir Andrew's dead.<br>
+  They boarded then his noble shipp,<br>
+    They boarded it with might and maine;<br>
+  Eighteen score Scots alive they found,<br>
+    The rest were either maimed or slaine.</p>
+
+<p>  Lord Howard tooke a sword in hand,<br>
+    And off he smote Sir Andrewes head,<br>
+  "I must have left England many a daye,<br>
+    If thou wert alive as thou art dead."<br>
+  He caused his body to be cast<br>
+    Over the hatchboard into the sea,<br>
+  And about his middle three hundred crownes:<br>
+    "Wherever thou land this will bury thee."</p>
+
+<p>  Thus from the warres Lord Howard came,<br>
+    And backe he sayled ore the maine,<br>
+  With mickle joy and triumphing<br>
+    Into Thames mouth he came againe.<br>
+  Lord Howard then a letter wrote,<br>
+    And sealed it with scale and ring;<br>
+  "Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace,<br>
+    As never did subject to a king:</p>
+
+<p>  "Sir Andrewes shipp I bring with mee;<br>
+    A braver shipp was never none:<br>
+  Nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr,<br>
+    Before in England was but one."<br>
+  King Henryes grace with royall cheere<br>
+    Welcomed the noble Howard home,<br>
+  And where, said he, is this rover stout,<br>
+   That I myselfe may give the doome?</p>
+
+<p>  "The rover, he is safe, my liege,<br>
+    Full many a fadom in the sea;<br>
+  If he were alive as he is dead,<br>
+    I must have left England many a day:<br>
+  And your grace may thank four men i' the ship<br>
+    For the victory wee have wonne,<br>
+  These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt,<br>
+    And Peter Simon, and his sonne."</p>
+
+<p>  To Henry Hunt, the king then sayd,<br>
+    In lieu of what was from thee tane,<br>
+  A noble a day now thou shalt have,<br>
+    Sir Andrewes jewels and his chayne.<br>
+  And Horseley thou shalt be a knight,<br>
+    And lands and livings shalt have store;<br>
+  Howard shall be erle Surrye hight,<br>
+    As Howards erst have beene before.</p>
+
+<p>  Nowe, Peter Simon, thou art old,<br>
+    I will maintaine thee and thy sonne:<br>
+  And the men shall have five hundred markes<br>
+    For the good service they have done.<br>
+  Then in came the queene with ladyes fair<br>
+    To see Sir Andrewe Barton knight:<br>
+  They weend that hee were brought on shore,<br>
+    And thought to have seen a gallant sight.</p>
+
+<p>  But when they see his deadlye face,<br>
+    And eyes soe hollow in his head,<br>
+  I wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes,<br>
+    This man were alive as hee is dead:<br>
+  Yett for the manfull part hee playd,<br>
+    Which fought soe well with heart and hand,<br>
+  His men shall have twelvepence a day,<br>
+    Till they come to my brother kings high land.</p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap14">MAY COLLIN</a></h2>
+<img alt="125.jpg (13K)" src="images/125.jpg" height="129" width="240">
+<br><br>
+<a name="collin"></a>
+<img alt="collin.jpg (139K)" src="images/collin.jpg" height="1017" width="750">
+
+<p>  May Collin ...<br>
+    ... was her father's heir,<br>
+  And she fell in love with a false priest,<br>
+    And she rued it ever mair.</p>
+
+<p>  He followd her butt, he followd her benn,<br>
+    He followd her through the hall,<br>
+  Till she had neither tongue nor teeth<br>
+    Nor lips to say him naw.</p>
+
+<p>  "We'll take the steed out where he is,<br>
+    The gold where eer it be,<br>
+  And we'll away to some unco land,<br>
+    And married we shall be."</p>
+
+<p>  They had not riden a mile, a mile,<br>
+    A mile but barely three,<br>
+  Till they came to a rank river,<br>
+    Was raging like the sea.</p>
+
+<p>  "Light off, light off now, May Collin,<br>
+    It's here that you must die;<br>
+  Here I have drownd seven king's daughters,<br>
+    The eight now you must be.</p>
+
+<p>  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,<br>
+    Your gown that's of the green;<br>
+  For it's oer good and oer costly<br>
+    To rot in the sea-stream.</p>
+
+<p>  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,<br>
+    Your coat that's of the black;<br>
+  For it's oer good and oer costly<br>
+    To rot in the sea-wreck.</p>
+
+<p>  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,<br>
+    Your stays that are well laced;<br>
+  For thei'r oer good and costly<br>
+    In the sea's ground to waste.</p>
+
+<p>  "Cast [off, cast off now, May Collin,]<br>
+    Your sark that's of the holland;<br>
+  For [it's oer good and oer costly]<br>
+    To rot in the sea-bottom."</p>
+
+<p>  "Turn you about now, falsh Mess John,<br>
+    To the green leaf of the tree;<br>
+  It does not fit a mansworn man<br>
+    A naked woman to see."</p>
+
+<p>  He turnd him quickly round about,<br>
+    To the green leaf of the tree;<br>
+  She took him hastly in her arms<br>
+    And flung him in the sea.</p>
+
+<p>  "Now lye you there, you falsh Mess John,<br>
+    My mallasin go with thee!<br>
+  You thought to drown me naked and bare,<br>
+    But take your cloaths with thee,<br>
+  And if there be seven king's daughters there<br>
+    Bear you them company"</p>
+
+<p>  She lap on her milk steed<br>
+    And fast she bent the way,<br>
+  And she was at her father's yate<br>
+    Three long hours or day.</p>
+
+<p>  Up and speaks the wylie parrot,<br>
+    So wylily and slee:<br>
+  "Where is the man now, May Collin,<br>
+    That gaed away wie thee?"</p>
+
+<p>  "Hold your tongue, my wylie parrot,<br>
+    And tell no tales of me,<br>
+  And where I gave a pickle befor<br>
+    It's now I'll give you three."</p>
+
+<img alt="128.jpg (5K)" src="images/128.jpg" height="124" width="127">
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap15">THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN</a></h2>
+<img alt="129.jpg (11K)" src="images/129.jpg" height="152" width="237">
+<br><br>
+
+<h3>PART THE FIRST</h3>
+
+<p>  Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight,<br>
+  He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright;<br>
+  And many a gallant brave suiter had shee,<br>
+  For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  And though shee was of favour most faire,<br>
+  Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre,<br>
+  Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee,<br>
+  Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say,<br>
+  Good father, and mother, let me goe away<br>
+  To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee.<br>
+  This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright,<br>
+  All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night<br>
+  From father and mother alone parted shee;<br>
+  Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow;<br>
+  Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe:<br>
+  With teares shee lamented her hard destinie,<br>
+  So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  Shee kept on her journey untill it was day,<br>
+  And went unto Rumford along the hye way;<br>
+  Where at the Queenes armes entertained was shee;<br>
+  Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  Shee had not beene there a month to an end,<br>
+  But master and mistress and all was her friend:<br>
+  And every brave gallant, that once did her see,<br>
+  Was straight-way enamoured of pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold,<br>
+  And in their songs daylye her love was extold;<br>
+  Her beawtye was blazed in every degree;<br>
+  Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  The young men of Rumford in her had their joy;<br>
+  Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye;<br>
+  And at her commandment still wold they bee;<br>
+  Soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  Foure suitors att once unto her did goe;<br>
+  They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe;<br>
+  I wold not wish gentles to marry with mee.<br>
+  Yett ever they honored prettye Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  The first of them was a gallant young knight,<br>
+  And he came unto her disguisde in the night;<br>
+  The second a gentleman of good degree,<br>
+  Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small,<br>
+  He was the third suiter, and proper withall:<br>
+  Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee,<br>
+  Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  And, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight,<br>
+  Ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight;<br>
+  My hart's so inthralled by thy bewtle,<br>
+  That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with mee,<br>
+  As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee:<br>
+  My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee;<br>
+  And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  Let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say,<br>
+  Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay;<br>
+  My shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee,<br>
+  And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus she did say,<br>
+  My father and mother I meane to obey;<br>
+  First gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee,<br>
+  And you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  To every one this answer shee made,<br>
+  Wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd,<br>
+  This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree;  But where dwells thy
+father,<br>
+my prettye Besse?</p>
+
+<p>  My father, shee said, is soone to be seene:<br>
+  The seely blind beggar of Bednall-greene,<br>
+  That daylye sits begging for charitie,<br>
+  He is the good father of pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  His markes and his tokens are knowen very well;<br>
+  He alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell:<br>
+  A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee,<br>
+  Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee:<br>
+  Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee:<br>
+  I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree,<br>
+  And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee!</p>
+
+<p>  Why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse,<br>
+  I waighe not true love by the waight of my pursse,<br>
+  And bewtye is bewtye in every degree;<br>
+  Then welcome unto me, my prettye Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  With thee to thy father forthwith I will goe.<br>
+  Nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe;<br>
+  A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee,<br>
+  Then take thy adew of pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  But soone after this, by breake of the day,<br>
+  The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away.<br>
+  The younge men of Rumford, as thicke might bee,<br>
+  Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  As swifte as the winde to ryde they were scene,<br>
+  Untill they came neare unto Bednall-greene;<br>
+  And as the knight lighted most courteousl&igrave;e,<br>
+  They all fought against him for pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  But rescew came speedilye over the plaine,<br>
+  Or else the young knight for his love had been slaine.<br>
+  This fray being ended, then straitway he see<br>
+  His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  Then spake the blind beggar, Although I bee poore,<br>
+  Yett rayle not against my child at my own doore:<br>
+  Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle,<br>
+  Yett will I dropp angells with you for my girle.</p>
+
+<p>  And then, if my gold may better her birthe,<br>
+  And equall the gold that you lay on the earth,<br>
+  Then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see<br>
+  The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee.</p>
+
+<p>  But first you shall promise, and have it well knowne,<br>
+  The gold that you drop shall all be your owne.<br>
+  With that they replyed, Contented bee wee.<br>
+  Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  With that an angell he cast on the ground,<br>
+  And dropped in angels full three thousand pound;<br>
+  And oftentime itt was proved most plaine,<br>
+  For the gentlemens one the beggar droppt twayne:</p>
+
+<p>  Soe that the place, wherin they did sitt,<br>
+  With gold it was covered every whitt.<br>
+  The gentlemen then having dropt all their store,<br>
+  Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more.</p>
+
+<p>  Thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright.<br>
+  Then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight;<br>
+  And heere, added hee, I will now throwe you downe<br>
+  A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne.</p>
+
+<p>  The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene,<br>
+  Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene:<br>
+  And all those, that were her suitors before,<br>
+  Their fleshe for very anger they tore.</p>
+
+<p>  Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight,<br>
+  And then made a ladye in others despite:<br>
+  A fairer ladye there never was seene,<br>
+  Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall-greene.</p>
+
+<p>  But of their sumptuous marriage and feast,<br>
+  What brave lords and knights thither were prest,<br>
+  The SECOND FITT shall set forth to your sight<br>
+  With marveilous pleasure, and wished delight.</p>
+
+<br><br>
+<h3>PART THE SECOND</h3>
+
+<p>  Off a blind beggars daughter most bright,<br>
+  That late was betrothed unto a younge knight;<br>
+  All the discourse therof you did see;<br>
+  But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  Within a gorgeous palace most brave,<br>
+  Adorned with all the cost they cold have,<br>
+  This wedding was kept most sumptuousl&igrave;e,<br>
+  And all for the credit of pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete<br>
+  Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete;<br>
+  Partridge, and plover, and venison most free,<br>
+  Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  This marriage through England was spread by report,<br>
+  Soe that a great number therto did resort<br>
+  Of nobles and gentles in every degree;<br>
+  And all for the fame of prettye Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  To church then went this gallant younge knight;<br>
+  His bride followed after, an angell most bright,<br>
+  With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was scene<br>
+  As went with sweete Bessy of Bednall-greene.</p>
+
+<p>  This marryage being solempnized then,<br>
+  With musicke performed by the skilfullest men,<br>
+  The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde,<br>
+  Each one admiring the beautiful bryde.</p>
+
+<p>  Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done,<br>
+  To talke, and to reason a number begunn:<br>
+  They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright,<br>
+  And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.</p>
+
+<p>  Then spake the nobles, "Much marveil have wee,<br>
+  This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see."<br>
+  My lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base,<br>
+  He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.</p>
+
+<p>  "The prayse of a woman in question to bringe<br>
+  Before her own face, were a flattering thinge;<br>
+  But wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they,<br>
+  "Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye."</p>
+
+<p>  They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke,<br>
+  But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke;<br>
+  A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee,<br>
+  And now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee.</p>
+
+<p>  He had a daintye lute under his arme,<br>
+  He touched the strings, which made such a charme,<br>
+  Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee,<br>
+  Ile sing you a song of pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  With that his lute he twanged straightway,<br>
+  And thereon begann most sweetlye to play;<br>
+  And after that lessons were playd two or three,<br>
+  He strayn'd out this song most delicatel&igrave;e.</p>
+
+<p>  "A poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene,<br>
+  Who for her fairenesse might well be a queene:<br>
+  A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee,<br>
+  And many one called her pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  "Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land,<br>
+  But begged for a penny all day with his hand;<br>
+  And yett to her marriage he gave thousands three,<br>
+  And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  "And if any one here her birth doe disdaine,<br>
+  Her father is ready, with might and with maine,<br>
+  To proove shee is come of noble degree:<br>
+  Therfore never flout att prettye Bessee."</p>
+
+<p>  With that the lords and the companye round<br>
+  With harty laughter were readye to swound;<br>
+  Att last said the lords, Full well wee may see,<br>
+  The bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee.</p>
+
+<p>  On this the bride all blushing did rise,<br>
+  The pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes,<br>
+  O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee,<br>
+  That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee.</p>
+
+<p>  If this be thy father, the nobles did say,<br>
+  Well may he be proud of this happy day;<br>
+  Yett by his countenance well may wee see,<br>
+  His birth and his fortune did never agree:</p>
+
+<p>  And therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray,<br>
+  (and looke that the truth thou to us doe say)<br>
+  Thy birth and thy parentage, whatt itt may bee;<br>
+  For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  "Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one,<br>
+  One song more to sing, and then I have done;<br>
+  And if that itt may not winn good report,<br>
+  Then doe not give me a GROAT for my sport.</p>
+
+<p>  "Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shal bee;<br>
+  Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee,<br>
+  Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase,<br>
+  Now loste and forgotten are hee and his race.</p>
+
+<p>  "When the barons in armes did King Henrye oppose,<br>
+  Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose;<br>
+  A leader of courage undaunted was hee,<br>
+  And oft-times he made their enemyes flee.</p>
+
+<p>  "At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine<br>
+  The barons were routed, and Montford was slaine;<br>
+  Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee,<br>
+  Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee!</p>
+
+<p>  "Along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde,<br>
+  His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his side,<br>
+  Was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight!<br>
+  A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight.</p>
+
+<p>  "Among the dead bodyes all lifeless he laye,<br>
+  Till evening drewe on of the following daye,<br>
+  When by a yong ladye discovered was hee;<br>
+  And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee!</p>
+
+<p>  "A barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte<br>
+  To search for her father, who fell in the fight,<br>
+  And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he laye,<br>
+  Was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye.</p>
+
+<p>  "In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine,<br>
+  While he throughe the realme was beleeved to be slaine<br>
+  At lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee,<br>
+  And made him glad father of prettye Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  "And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye,<br>
+  We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye;<br>
+  Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee:<br>
+  All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  "And here have we lived in fortunes despite,<br>
+  Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte:<br>
+  Full forty winters thus have I beene<br>
+  A silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene.</p>
+
+<p>  "And here, noble lordes, is ended the song<br>
+  Of one, that once to your own ranke did belong:<br>
+  And thus have you learned a secrette from mee,<br>
+  That ne'er had been knowne, but for prettye Bessee."</p>
+
+<p>  Now when the faire companye everye one,<br>
+  Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne,<br>
+  They all were amazed, as well they might bee,<br>
+  Both at the blinde beggar, and pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+<p>  With that the faire bride they all did embrace,<br>
+  Saying, Sure thou art come of an honourable race,<br>
+  Thy father likewise is of noble degree,<br>
+  And thou art well worthy a lady to bee.</p>
+
+<p>  Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte,<br>
+  A bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte,<br>
+  In joy and felicitie long lived hee,<br>
+  All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.</p>
+
+
+
+<img alt="141.jpg (3K)" src="images/141.jpg" height="131" width="112">
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap16">THOMAS THE RHYMER</a></h2>
+<img alt="142.jpg (20K)" src="images/142.jpg" height="191" width="240">
+<br><br>
+<a name="rhymer"></a>
+<img alt="rhymer.jpg (93K)" src="images/rhymer.jpg" height="908" width="664">
+
+<p>  Thomas lay on the Huntlie bank,<br>
+    A spying ferlies wi his eee,<br>
+  And he did spy a lady gay,<br>
+    Come riding down by the lang lee.</p>
+
+<p>  Her steed was o the dapple grey,<br>
+    And at its mane there hung bells nine;<br>
+  He thought he heard that lady say,<br>
+    "They gowden bells sall a' be thine."</p>
+
+<p>  Her mantle was o velvet green,<br>
+    And a' set round wi jewels fine;<br>
+  Her hawk and hounds were at her side,<br>
+    And her bugle-horn wi gowd did shine.</p>
+
+<p>  Thomas took aff baith cloak and cap,<br>
+    For to salute this gay lady:<br>
+  "O save ye, save ye, fair Queen o Heavn,<br>
+    And ay weel met ye save and see!"</p>
+
+<p>  "I'm no the Queen o Heavn, Thomas;<br>
+    I never carried my head sae hee;<br>
+  For I am but a lady gay,<br>
+    Come out to hunt in my follee.</p>
+
+<p>  "Now gin ye kiss my mouth, Thomas,<br>
+    Ye mauna miss my fair bodee;<br>
+  Then ye may een gang hame and tell<br>
+    That ye've lain wi a gay ladee."</p>
+
+<p>  "O gin I loe a lady fair,<br>
+    Nae ill tales o her wad I tell,<br>
+  And it's wi thee I fain wad gae,<br>
+    Tho it were een to heavn or hell."</p>
+
+<p>  "Then harp and carp, Thomas," she said,<br>
+    "Then harp and carp alang wi me;<br>
+  But it will be seven years and a day<br>
+    Till ye win back to yere ain countrie."</p>
+
+<p>  The lady rade, True Thomas ran,<br>
+    Until they cam to a water wan;<br>
+  O it was night, and nae delight,<br>
+    And Thomas wade aboon the knee.</p>
+
+<p>  It was dark night, and nae starn-light,<br>
+    And on they waded lang days three,<br>
+  And they heard the roaring o a flood,<br>
+    And Thomas a waefou man was he.</p>
+
+<p>  Then they rade on, and farther on,<br>
+    Untill they came to a garden green;<br>
+  To pu an apple he put up his hand,<br>
+    For the lack o food he was like to tyne.</p>
+
+<p>  "O haud yere hand, Thomas," she cried,<br>
+    "And let that green flourishing be;<br>
+  For it's the very fruit o hell,<br>
+    Beguiles baith man and woman o yere countrie.</p>
+
+<p>  "But look afore ye, True Thomas,<br>
+    And I shall show ye ferlies three;<br>
+  Yon is the gate leads to our land,<br>
+    Where thou and I sae soon shall be.</p>
+
+<p>  "And dinna ye see yon road, Thomas,<br>
+    That lies out-owr yon lilly lee?<br>
+  Weel is the man yon gate may gang,<br>
+    For it leads him straight to the heavens hie.</p>
+
+<p>  "But do you see yon road, Thomas,<br>
+    That lies out-owr yon frosty fell?<br>
+  Ill is the man yon gate may gang,<br>
+    For it leads him straight to the pit o hell.</p>
+
+<p>  "Now when ye come to our court, Thomas,<br>
+    See that a weel-learned man ye be;<br>
+  For they will ask ye, one and all,<br>
+    But ye maun answer nane but me.</p>
+
+<p>  "And when nae answer they obtain,<br>
+    Then will they come and question me,<br>
+  And I will answer them again<br>
+    That I gat yere aith at the Eildon tree.</p>
+
+<p>       *       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>  "Ilka seven years, Thomas,<br>
+    We pay our teindings unto hell,<br>
+  And ye're sae leesome and sae strang<br>
+    That I fear, Thomas, it will be yeresell."</p>
+
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap17">YOUNG BEICHAN</a></h2>
+<img alt="146.jpg (16K)" src="images/146.jpg" height="177" width="239">
+<br><br>
+<a name="beichan"></a>
+<img alt="beichan.jpg (140K)" src="images/beichan.jpg" height="1021" width="750">
+
+<p>  In London city was Bicham born,<br>
+    He longd strange countries for to see,<br>
+  But he was taen by a savage Moor,<br>
+    Who handld him right cruely.</p>
+
+<p>  For thro his shoulder he put a bore,<br>
+    An thro the bore has pitten a tree,<br>
+  An he's gard him draw the carts o wine,<br>
+    Where horse and oxen had wont to be.</p>
+
+<p>  He's casten [him] in a dungeon deep,<br>
+    Where he coud neither hear nor see;<br>
+  He's shut him up in a prison strong,<br>
+    An he's handld him right cruely.</p>
+
+<p>  O this Moor he had but ae daughter,<br>
+    I wot her name was Shusy Pye;<br>
+  She's doen her to the prison-house,<br>
+    And she's calld Young Bicham one word</p>
+
+<p>  "O hae ye ony lands or rents,<br>
+    Or citys in your ain country,<br>
+  Coud free you out of prison strong,<br>
+    An coud mantain a lady free?"</p>
+
+<p>  "O London city is my own,<br>
+    An other citys twa or three,<br>
+  Coud loose me out o prison strong,<br>
+    An coud mantain a lady free."</p>
+
+<p>  O she has bribed her father's men<br>
+    Wi meikle goud and white money,<br>
+  She's gotten the key o the prison doors,<br>
+    An she has set Young Bicham free.</p>
+
+<p>  She's g'in him a loaf o good white bread,<br>
+    But an a flask o Spanish wine,<br>
+  An she bad him mind on the ladie's love<br>
+    That sae kindly freed him out o pine.</p>
+
+<p>  "Go set your foot on good ship-board,<br>
+    An haste you back to your ain country,<br>
+  An before that seven years has an end,<br>
+    Come back again, love, and marry me."</p>
+
+<p>  It was long or seven years had an end<br>
+    She longd fu sair her love to see;<br>
+  She's set her foot on good ship-board,<br>
+    And turnd her back on her ain country.</p>
+
+<p>  She's saild up, so has she doun,<br>
+    Till she came to the other side;<br>
+  She's landed at Young Bicham's gates,<br>
+    An I hop this day she sal be his bride.</p>
+
+<p>  "Is this Young Bicham's gates?" says she,<br>
+    "Or is that noble prince within?"<br>
+  "He's up the stairs wi his bonny bride,<br>
+    An monny a lord and lady wi him."</p>
+
+<p>  "O has he taen a bonny bride,<br>
+    An has he clean forgotten me!"<br>
+  An sighing said that gay lady,<br>
+    I wish I were in my ain country!</p>
+
+<p>  But she's pitten her han in her pocket,<br>
+    An gin the porter guineas three;<br>
+  Says, Take ye that, ye proud porter,<br>
+    An bid the bridegroom speak to me.</p>
+
+<p>  O whan the porter came up the stair,<br>
+    He's fa'n low down upon his knee:<br>
+  "Won up, won up, ye proud porter,<br>
+    An what makes a' this courtesy?"</p>
+
+<p>  "O I've been porter at your gates<br>
+    This mair nor seven years an three,<br>
+  But there is a lady at them now<br>
+    The like of whom I never did see.</p>
+
+<p>  "For on every finger she has a ring,<br>
+    An on the mid-finger she has three,<br>
+  An there's a meikle goud aboon her brow<br>
+    As woud buy an earldome o lan to me."</p>
+
+<p>  Then up it started Young Bicham,<br>
+    An sware so loud by Our Lady,<br>
+  "It can be nane but Shusy Pye,<br>
+    That has come oer the sea to me."</p>
+
+<p>  O quickly ran he down the stair,<br>
+    O fifteen steps he has made but three;<br>
+  He's tane his bonny love in his arms,<br>
+    An a wot he kissd her tenderly.</p>
+
+<p>  "O hae you tane a bonny bride?<br>
+    An hae you quite forsaken me?<br>
+  An hae ye quite forgotten her<br>
+    That gae you life an liberty?"</p>
+
+ <p>She's lookit oer her left shoulder<br>
+    To hide the tears stood in her ee;<br>
+  "Now fare thee well, Young Bicham," she says,<br>
+    "I'll strive to think nae mair on thee."</p>
+
+<p>  "Take back your daughter, madam," he says,<br>
+    "An a double dowry I'll gi her wi;<br>
+  For I maun marry my first true love,<br>
+    That's done and suffered so much for me."</p>
+
+<p>  He's take his bonny love by the ban,<br>
+    And led her to yon fountain stane;<br>
+  He's changd her name frae Shusy Pye,<br>
+    An he's cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane.</p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap18">BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY</a></h2>
+<img alt="151.jpg (18K)" src="images/151.jpg" height="181" width="237">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  The fifteenth day of July,<br>
+    With glistering spear and shield,<br>
+  A famous fight in Flanders<br>
+    Was foughten in the field:<br>
+  The most couragious officers<br>
+    Were English captains three;<br>
+  But the bravest man in battel<br>
+    Was brave Lord Willoughb&egrave;y.</p>
+
+<p>  The next was Captain Norris,<br>
+    A valiant man was hee:<br>
+  The other Captain Turner,<br>
+    From field would never flee.<br>
+  With fifteen hundred fighting men,<br>
+    Alas! there were no more,<br>
+  They fought with fourteen thousand then,<br>
+    Upon the bloody shore.</p>
+
+<p>  Stand to it, noble pikemen,<br>
+    And look you round about:<br>
+  And shoot you right, you bow-men,<br>
+    And we will keep them out:<br>
+  You musquet and call&igrave;ver men,<br>
+    Do you prove true to me,<br>
+  I'le be the formost man in fight,<br>
+    Says brave Lord Willoughb&egrave;y.</p>
+
+<p>  And then the bloody enemy<br>
+    They fiercely did assail,<br>
+  And fought it out most furiously,<br>
+    Not doubting to prevail:<br>
+  The wounded men on both sides fell<br>
+    Most pitious for to see,<br>
+  Yet nothing could the courage quell<br>
+    Of brave Lord Willoughb&egrave;y.</p>
+
+<p>  For seven hours to all mens view<br>
+    This fight endured sore,<br>
+  Until our men so feeble grew<br>
+    That they could fight no more;<br>
+  And then upon dead horses<br>
+    Full savourly they eat,<br>
+  And drank the puddle water,<br>
+    They could no better get.</p>
+
+<p>  When they had fed so freely,<br>
+    They kneeled on the ground,<br>
+  And praised God devoutly<br>
+    For the favour they had found;<br>
+  And beating up their colours,<br>
+    The fight they did renew,<br>
+  And turning tow'rds the Spaniard,<br>
+    A thousand more they slew.</p>
+
+<p>  The sharp steel-pointed arrows,<br>
+    And bullets thick did fly,<br>
+  Then did our valiant soldiers<br>
+    Charge on most furiously;<br>
+  Which made the Spaniards waver,<br>
+    They thought it best to flee,<br>
+  They fear'd the stout behaviour<br>
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.</p>
+
+<p>  Then quoth the Spanish general,<br>
+    Come let us march away,<br>
+  I fear we shall be spoiled all<br>
+    If here we longer stay;<br>
+  For yonder comes Lord Willoughbey<br>
+    With courage fierce and fell,<br>
+  He will not give one inch of way<br>
+    For all the devils in hell.</p>
+
+<p>  And then the fearful enemy<br>
+    Was quickly put to flight,<br>
+  Our men persued couragiously,<br>
+    And caught their forces quite;<br>
+  But at last they gave a shout,<br>
+    Which ecchoed through the sky,<br>
+  God, and St. George for England!<br>
+    The conquerors did cry.</p>
+
+<p>  This news was brought to England<br>
+    With all the speed might be,<br>
+  And soon our gracious queen was told<br>
+    Of this same victory.<br>
+  O this is brave Lord Willoughbey,<br>
+    My love that ever won,<br>
+  Of all the lords of honour<br>
+    'Tis he great deeds hath done.</p>
+
+<p>  To the souldiers that were maimed,<br>
+    And wounded in the fray,<br>
+  The queen allowed a pension<br>
+    Of fifteen pence a day;<br>
+  And from all costs and charges<br>
+    She quit and set them free:<br>
+  And this she did all for the sake<br>
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.</p>
+
+<p>  Then courage, noble Englishmen,<br>
+    And never be dismaid;<br>
+  If that we be but one to ten,<br>
+    We will not be afraid<br>
+  To fight with foraign enemies,<br>
+    And set our nation free.<br>
+  And thus I end the bloody bout<br>
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.</p>
+
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap19">THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE</a></h2>
+<img alt="155.jpg (12K)" src="images/155.jpg" height="168" width="239">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  Will you hear a Spanish lady,<br>
+    How shed wooed an English man?<br>
+  Garments gay and rich as may be<br>
+    Decked with jewels she had on.<br>
+  Of a comely countenance and grace was she,<br>
+  And by birth and parentage of high degree.</p>
+
+<p>  As his prisoner there he kept her,<br>
+    In his hands her life did lye!<br>
+  Cupid's bands did tye them faster<br>
+    By the liking of an eye.<br>
+  In his courteous company was all her joy,<br>
+  To favour him in any thing she was not coy.</p>
+
+<p>  But at last there came commandment<br>
+    For to set the ladies free,<br>
+  With their jewels still adorned,<br>
+    None to do them injury.<br>
+  Then said this lady mild, Full woe is me;<br>
+  O let me still sustain this kind captivity!</p>
+
+<p>  Gallant captain, shew some pity<br>
+    To a ladye in distresse;<br>
+  Leave me not within this city,<br>
+    For to dye in heavinesse:<br>
+  Thou hast this present day my body free,<br>
+  But my heart in prison still remains with thee.</p>
+
+<p>  "How should'st thou, fair lady, love me,<br>
+    Whom thou knowest thy country's foe?<br>
+  Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee:<br>
+    Serpents lie where flowers grow."<br>
+  All the harme I wishe to thee, most courteous knight,<br>
+  God grant the same upon my head may fully light.<br>
+  Blessed be the time and season,<br>
+    That you came on Spanish ground;<br>
+  If our foes you may be termed,<br>
+    Gentle foes we have you found:<br>
+  With our city, you have won our hearts eche one,<br>
+  Then to your country bear away, that is your owne.</p>
+
+<p>  "Rest you still, most gallant lady;<br>
+    Rest you still, and weep no more;<br>
+  Of fair lovers there is plenty,<br>
+    Spain doth yield a wonderous store."<br>
+  Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find,<br>
+  But Englishmen through all the world are counted kind.</p>
+
+<p>  Leave me not unto a Spaniard,<br>
+    You alone enjoy my heart:<br>
+  I am lovely, young, and tender,<br>
+    Love is likewise my desert:<br>
+  Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest;<br>
+  The wife of every Englishman is counted blest.<br>
+  "It wold be a shame, fair lady,<br>
+    For to bear a woman hence;<br>
+  English soldiers never carry<br>
+    Any such without offence."<br>
+  I'll quickly change myself, if it be so,<br>
+  And like a page He follow thee, where'er thou go.</p>
+
+<p>  "I have neither gold nor silver<br>
+    To maintain thee in this case,<br>
+  And to travel is great charges,<br>
+    As you know in every place."<br>
+  My chains and jewels every one shal be thy own,<br>
+  And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.</p>
+
+<p>  "On the seas are many dangers,<br>
+    Many storms do there arise,<br>
+  Which wil be to ladies dreadful,<br>
+    And force tears from watery eyes."<br>
+  Well in troth I shall endure extremity,<br>
+  For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.</p>
+
+<p>  "Courteous ladye, leave this fancy,<br>
+    Here comes all that breeds the strife;<br>
+  I in England have already<br>
+    A sweet woman to my wife:<br>
+  I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain,<br>
+  Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain."</p>
+
+<p>  O how happy is that woman<br>
+    That enjoys so true a friend!<br>
+  Many happy days God send her;<br>
+    Of my suit I make an end:<br>
+  On my knees I pardon crave for my offence,<br>
+  Which did from love and true affection first commence.</p>
+
+<p>  Commend me to thy lovely lady,<br>
+    Bear to her this chain of gold;<br>
+  And these bracelets for a token;<br>
+    Grieving that I was so bold:<br>
+  All my jewels in like sort take thou with thee,<br>
+  For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.</p>
+
+<p>  I will spend my days in prayer,<br>
+    Love and all her laws defye;<br>
+  In a nunnery will I shroud mee<br>
+    Far from any companye:<br>
+  But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this,<br>
+  To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.</p>
+
+<p>  Thus farewell, most gallant captain!<br>
+    Farewell too my heart's content!<br>
+  Count not Spanish ladies wanton,<br>
+    Though to thee my love was bent:<br>
+  Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee!<br>
+   "The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladie."</p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<p><a name="chap20">THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY</a></p>
+<img alt="160.jpg (9K)" src="images/160.jpg" height="121" width="235">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  It was a friar of orders gray<br>
+   Walkt forth to tell his beades;<br>
+  And he met with a lady faire,<br>
+    Clad in a pilgrime's weedes.</p>
+
+<p>  Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,<br>
+    I pray thee tell to me,<br>
+  If ever at yon holy shrine<br>
+    My true love thou didst see.</p>
+
+<p>  And how should I know your true love<br>
+    From many another one?<br>
+  O by his cockle hat, and staff,<br>
+    And by his sandal shoone.</p>
+
+<p>  But chiefly by his face and mien,<br>
+    That were so fair to view;<br>
+  His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,<br>
+    And eyne of lovely blue.</p>
+
+<p>  O lady, he is dead and gone!<br>
+    Lady, he's dead and gone!<br>
+  And at his head a green grass turfe,<br>
+    And at his heels a stone.</p>
+
+<p>  Within these holy cloysters long<br>
+    He languisht, and he dyed,<br>
+  Lamenting of a ladyes love,<br>
+    And 'playning of her pride.</p>
+
+<p>  Here bore him barefac'd on his bier<br>
+    Six proper youths and tall,<br>
+  And many a tear bedew'd his grave<br>
+    Within yon kirk-yard wall.</p>
+
+<p>  And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!<br>
+    And art thou dead and gone!<br>
+  And didst thou die for love of me!<br>
+    Break, cruel heart of stone!</p>
+
+<p>  O weep not, lady, weep not soe;<br>
+    Some ghostly comfort seek:<br>
+  Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,<br>
+    Ne teares bedew thy cheek.</p>
+
+<p>  O do not, do not, holy friar,<br>
+    My sorrow now reprove;<br>
+  For I have lost the sweetest youth,<br>
+    That e'er wan ladyes love.</p>
+
+<p>  And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse,<br>
+    I'll evermore weep and sigh;<br>
+  For thee I only wisht to live,<br>
+    For thee I wish to dye.</p>
+
+<p>  Weep no more, lady, weep no more,<br>
+    Thy sorrowe is in vaine:<br>
+  For violets pluckt the sweetest showers<br>
+    Will ne'er make grow againe.</p>
+
+<p>  Our joys as winged dreams doe flye,<br>
+    Why then should sorrow last?<br>
+  Since grief but aggravates thy losse,<br>
+    Grieve not for what is past.</p>
+
+<p>  O say not soe, thou holy friar;<br>
+    I pray thee, say not soe:<br>
+  For since my true-love dyed for mee,<br>
+    'Tis meet my tears should flow.</p>
+
+<p>  And will he ne'er come again?<br>
+    Will he ne'er come again?<br>
+  Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,<br>
+    For ever to remain.</p>
+
+<p>  His cheek was redder than the rose;<br>
+    The comliest youth was he!<br>
+  But he is dead and laid in his grave:<br>
+    Alas, and woe is me!</p>
+
+<p>  Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,<br>
+    Men were deceivers ever:<br>
+  One foot on sea and one on land,<br>
+    To one thing constant never.</p>
+
+<p>  Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,<br>
+    And left thee sad and heavy;<br>
+  For young men ever were fickle found,<br>
+    Since summer trees were leafy.</p>
+
+<p>  Now say not so, thou holy friar,<br>
+    I pray thee say not soe;<br>
+  My love he had the truest heart:<br>
+    O he was ever true!</p>
+
+<p>  And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth,<br>
+    And didst thou dye for mee?<br>
+  Then farewell home; for ever-more<br>
+    A pilgrim I will bee.</p>
+
+<p>  But first upon my true-loves grave<br>
+    My weary limbs I'll lay,<br>
+  And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,<br>
+    That wraps his breathless clay.</p>
+
+<p>  Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile<br>
+    Beneath this cloyster wall:<br>
+  See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,<br>
+    And drizzly rain doth fall.</p>
+
+<p>  O stay me not, thou holy friar;<br>
+    O stay me not, I pray;<br>
+  No drizzly rain that falls on me,<br>
+    Can wash my fault away.</p>
+
+<p>  Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,<br>
+    And dry those pearly tears;<br>
+  For see beneath this gown of gray<br>
+    Thy own true-love appears.</p>
+
+<p>  Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love,<br>
+    These holy weeds I sought;<br>
+  And here amid these lonely walls<br>
+    To end my days I thought.</p>
+
+<p>  But haply for my year of grace<br>
+    Is not yet past away,<br>
+  Might I still hope to win thy love,<br>
+    No longer would I stay.</p>
+
+<p>  Now farewell grief, and welcome joy<br>
+    Once more unto my heart;<br>
+  For since I have found thee, lovely youth,<br>
+    We never more will part.</p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap21">CLERK COLVILL</a></h2>
+<img alt="165.jpg (12K)" src="images/165.jpg" height="139" width="232">
+<br><br>
+<a name="colvill"></a>
+<img alt="colvill.jpg (159K)" src="images/colvill.jpg" height="1017" width="750">
+
+
+<p>  Clerk Colvill and his lusty dame<br>
+    Were walking in the garden green;<br>
+  The belt around her stately waist<br>
+    Cost Clerk Colvill of pounds fifteen.</p>
+
+<p>  "O promise me now, Clerk Colvill,<br>
+    Or it will cost ye muckle strife,<br>
+  Ride never by the wells of Slane,<br>
+    If ye wad live and brook your life."</p>
+
+<p>  "Now speak nae mair, my lusty dame,<br>
+    Now speak nae mair of that to me;<br>
+  Did I neer see a fair woman,<br>
+    But I wad sin with her body?"</p>
+
+<p>  He's taen leave o his gay lady,<br>
+    Nought minding what his lady said,<br>
+  And he's rode by the wells of Slane,<br>
+    Where washing was a bonny maid.</p>
+
+<p>  "Wash on, wash on, my bonny maid,<br>
+    That wash sae clean your sark of silk;"<br>
+  "And weel fa you, fair gentleman,<br>
+    Your body whiter than the milk."</p>
+
+<p>      *       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>  Then loud, loud cry'd the Clerk Colvill,<br>
+    "O my head it pains me sair;"<br>
+  "Then take, then take," the maiden said,<br>
+    "And frae my sark you'll cut a gare."</p>
+
+<p>  Then she's gied him a little bane-knife,<br>
+    And frae her sark he cut a share;<br>
+  She's ty'd it round his whey-white face,<br>
+    But ay his head it aked mair.</p>
+
+<p>  Then louder cry'd the Clerk Colville,<br>
+    "O sairer, sairer akes my head;"<br>
+  "And sairer, sairer ever will,"<br>
+    The maiden crys, "till you be dead."</p>
+
+<p>  Out then he drew his shining blade,<br>
+    Thinking to stick her where she stood,<br>
+  But she was vanished to a fish,<br>
+    And swam far off, a fair mermaid.</p>
+
+<p>  "O mother, mother, braid my hair;<br>
+    My lusty lady, make my bed;<br>
+  O brother, take my sword and spear,<br>
+    For I have seen the false mermaid."</p>
+
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap22">SIR ALDINGAR</a></h2>
+<img alt="167.jpg (18K)" src="images/167.jpg" height="159" width="237">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  Our king he kept a false stew&agrave;rde,<br>
+    Sir Aldingar they him call;<br>
+  A falser steward than he was one,<br>
+    Servde not in bower nor hall.</p>
+
+<p>  He wolde have layne by our comelye queene,<br>
+    Her deere worshippe to betraye:<br>
+  Our queene she was a good wom&agrave;n,<br>
+    And evermore said him naye.</p>
+
+<p>  Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind,<br>
+    With her hee was never content,<br>
+  Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse,<br>
+    In a fyer to have her brent.</p>
+
+<p>  There came a lazar to the kings gate,<br>
+    A lazar both blinde and lame:<br>
+  He tooke the lazar upon his backe,<br>
+    Him on the queenes bed has layne.</p>
+
+<p>  "Lye still, lazar, whereas thou lyest,<br>
+    Looke thou goe not hence away;<br>
+  He make thee a whole man and a sound<br>
+    In two howers of the day."</p>
+
+<p>  Then went him forth Sir Aldingar,<br>
+    And hyed him to our king:<br>
+  "If I might have grace, as I have space,<br>
+    Sad tydings I could bring."</p>
+
+<p>  Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar,<br>
+    Saye on the soothe to mee.<br>
+  "Our queene hath chosen a new new love,<br>
+    And shee will have none of thee.</p>
+
+<p>  "If shee had chosen a right good knight,<br>
+    The lesse had beene her shame;<br>
+  But she hath chose her a lazar man,<br>
+    A lazar both blinde and lame."</p>
+
+<p>  If this be true, thou Aldingar,<br>
+    The tyding thou tellest to me,<br>
+  Then will I make thee a rich rich knight,<br>
+    Rich both of golde and fee.</p>
+
+<p>  But if it be false, Sir Aldingar,<br>
+    As God nowe grant it bee!<br>
+  Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood,<br>
+    Shall hang on the gallows tree.</p>
+
+<p>  He brought our king to the queenes chamb&egrave;r,<br>
+    And opend to him the dore.<br>
+  A lodlye love, King Harry says,<br>
+    For our queene dame Elinore!</p>
+
+<p>  If thou were a man, as thou art none,<br>
+    Here on my sword thoust dye;<br>
+  But a payre of new gallowes shall be built,<br>
+    And there shalt thou hang on hye.</p>
+
+<p>  Forth then hyed our king, I wysse,<br>
+    And an angry man was hee;<br>
+  And soone he found Queen Elinore,<br>
+    That bride so bright of blee.</p>
+
+<p>  Now God you save, our queene, madame,<br>
+    And Christ you save and see;<br>
+  Heere you have chosen a newe newe love,<br>
+    And you will have none of mee.</p>
+
+<p>  If you had chosen a right good knight,<br>
+    The lesse had been your shame;<br>
+  But you have chose you a lazar man,<br>
+    A lazar both blinde and lame.</p>
+
+<p>  Therfore a fyer there shalt be built,<br>
+    And brent all shalt thou bee.--<br>
+  Now out alacke! said our comly queene,<br>
+    Sir Aldingar's false to mee.</p>
+
+<p>  Now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene,<br>
+    My heart with griefe will brast.<br>
+  I had thought swevens had never been true;<br>
+    I have proved them true at last.</p>
+
+<p>  I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve,<br>
+    In my bed whereas I laye.<br>
+  I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast<br>
+    Had carryed my crowne awaye;</p>
+
+<p>  My gorgett and my kirtle of golde,<br>
+    And all my faire head-geere:<br>
+  And he wold worrye me with his tush<br>
+    And to his nest y-beare:</p>
+
+<p>  Saving there came a little 'gray' hawke,<br>
+    A merlin him they call,<br>
+  Which untill the grounde did strike the grype,<br>
+    That dead he downe did fall.</p>
+
+<p>  Giffe I were a man, as now I am none,<br>
+    A battell wold I prove,<br>
+  To fight with that traitor Aldingar,<br>
+    Att him I cast my glove.</p>
+
+<p>  But seeing Ime able noe battell to make,<br>
+    My liege, grant me a knight<br>
+  To fight with that traitor Sir Aldingar,<br>
+    To maintaine me in my right.</p>
+
+<p>  "Now forty dayes I will give thee<br>
+    To seeke thee a knight therein:<br>
+  If thou find not a knight in forty dayes<br>
+    Thy bodye it must brenn."</p>
+
+<p>  Then shee sent east, and shee sent west,<br>
+    By north and south bedeene:<br>
+  But never a champion colde she find,<br>
+    Wolde fight with that knight soe keene.</p>
+
+<p>  Now twenty dayes were spent and gone,<br>
+    Noe helpe there might be had;<br>
+  Many a teare shed our comelye queene<br>
+    And aye her hart was sad.</p>
+
+<p>  Then came one of the queenes dams&egrave;lles,<br>
+    And knelt upon her knee,<br>
+  "Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame,<br>
+    I trust yet helpe may be:</p>
+
+<p>  And here I will make mine avowe,<br>
+    And with the same me binde;<br>
+  That never will I return to thee,<br>
+    Till I some helpe may finde."</p>
+
+<p>  Then forth she rode on a faire palfr&agrave;ye<br>
+    Oer hill and dale about:<br>
+  But never a champion colde she finde,<br>
+    Wolde fighte with that knight so stout.</p>
+
+<p>  And nowe the daye drewe on a pace,<br>
+    When our good queene must dye;<br>
+  All woe-begone was that faire dams&egrave;lle,<br>
+    When she found no helpe was nye.</p>
+
+<p>  All woe-begone was that faire dams&egrave;lle,<br>
+    And the salt teares fell from her eye:<br>
+  When lo! as she rode by a rivers side,<br>
+    She met with a tinye boye.</p>
+
+<p>  A tinye boye she mette, God wot,<br>
+    All clad in mantle of golde;<br>
+  He seemed noe more in mans liken&egrave;sse,<br>
+    Then a childe of four yeere old.</p>
+
+<p>  Why grieve you, damselle faire, he sayd,<br>
+    And what doth cause you moane?<br>
+  The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke,<br>
+    But fast she pricked on.</p>
+
+<p>  Yet turne againe, thou faire dams&egrave;lle<br>
+    And greete thy queene from mee:<br>
+  When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest,<br>
+    Nowe helpe enoughe may bee.</p>
+
+<p>  Bid her remember what she dreamt<br>
+    In her bedd, wheras shee laye;<br>
+  How when the grype and grimly beast<br>
+    Wolde have carried her crowne awaye,</p>
+
+<p>  Even then there came the little gray hawke,<br>
+    And saved her from his clawes:<br>
+  Then bidd the queene be merry at hart,<br>
+    For heaven will fende her cause.</p>
+
+<p>  Back then rode that faire dams&egrave;lle,<br>
+    And her hart it lept for glee:<br>
+  And when she told her gracious dame<br>
+    A gladd woman then was shee:</p>
+
+<p>  But when the appointed day was come,<br>
+    No helpe appeared nye:<br>
+  Then woeful, woeful was her hart,<br>
+    And the teares stood in her eye.</p>
+
+<p>  And nowe a fyer was built of wood;<br>
+    And a stake was made of tree;<br>
+  And now Queene Elinor forth was led,<br>
+    A sorrowful sight to see.</p>
+
+<p>  Three times the herault he waved his hand,<br>
+    And three times spake on hye:<br>
+  Giff any good knight will fende this dame,<br>
+    Come forth, or shee must dye.</p>
+
+<p>  No knight stood forth, no knight there came,<br>
+    No helpe appeared nye:<br>
+  And now the fyer was lighted up,<br>
+    Queen Elinor she must dye.</p>
+
+<p>  And now the fyer was lighted up,<br>
+    As hot as hot might bee;<br>
+  When riding upon a little white steed,<br>
+    The tinye boy they see.</p>
+
+<p>  "Away with that stake, away with those brands,<br>
+    And loose our comelye queene:<br>
+  I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar,<br>
+    And prove him a traitor keene."</p>
+
+<p>  Forthe then stood Sir Aldingar,<br>
+    But when he saw the chylde,<br>
+  He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe,<br>
+    And weened he had been beguylde.</p>
+
+<p>  "Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar,<br>
+    And eyther fighte or flee;<br>
+  I trust that I shall avenge the wronge,<br>
+    Thoughe I am so small to see."</p>
+
+<p>  The boy pulld forth a well good sworde<br>
+    So gilt it dazzled the ee;<br>
+  The first stroke stricken at Aldingar,<br>
+    Smote off his leggs by the knee.</p>
+
+<p>  "Stand up, stand up, thou false trait&ograve;r,<br>
+    And fight upon thy feete,<br>
+  For and thou thrive, as thou begin'st,<br>
+    Of height wee shall be meete."</p>
+
+<p>  A priest, a priest, sayes Alding&agrave;r,<br>
+    While I am a man alive.<br>
+  A priest, a priest, sayes Alding&agrave;r,<br>
+    Me for to houzle and shrive.</p>
+
+<p>  I wolde have laine by our comlie queene,<br>
+    Bot shee wolde never consent;<br>
+  Then I thought to betraye her unto our kinge<br>
+    In a fyer to have her brent.</p>
+
+<p>  There came a lazar to the kings gates,<br>
+    A lazar both blind and lame:<br>
+  I tooke the lazar upon my backe,<br>
+    And on her bedd had him layne.</p>
+
+<p>  Then ranne I to our comlye king,<br>
+    These tidings sore to tell.<br>
+  But ever alacke! sayes Aldingar,<br>
+    Falsing never doth well.</p>
+
+<p>  Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame,<br>
+    The short time I must live.<br>
+  "Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar,<br>
+    As freely I forgive."</p>
+
+<p>  Here take thy queene, our king Harry&egrave;,<br>
+    And love her as thy life,<br>
+  For never had a king in Christentye.<br>
+    A truer and fairer wife.</p>
+
+<p>  King Henrye ran to claspe his queene,<br>
+    And loosed her full sone:<br>
+  Then turned to look for the tinye boye;<br>
+    --The boye was vanisht and gone.</p>
+
+<p>  But first he had touched the lazar man,<br>
+    And stroakt him with his hand:<br>
+  The lazar under the gallowes tree<br>
+    All whole and sounde did stand.</p>
+
+<p>  The lazar under the gallowes tree<br>
+    Was comelye, straight and tall;<br>
+  King Henrye made him his head stew&agrave;rde<br>
+    To wayte withinn his hall.</p>
+
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap23">EDOM O' GORDON</a></h2>
+<img alt="177.jpg (116K)" src="images/177.jpg" height="582" width="769">
+<br><br>
+
+
+<p>  It fell about the Martinmas,<br>
+    Quhen the wind blew shril and cauld,<br>
+  Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,<br>
+    We maun draw till a hauld.</p>
+
+<p>  And quhat a hauld sall we draw till,<br>
+    My mirry men and me?<br>
+  We wul gae to the house o' the Rodes,<br>
+    To see that fair ladie.</p>
+
+<p>  The lady stude on her castle wa',<br>
+    Beheld baith dale and down:<br>
+  There she was ware of a host of men<br>
+    Cum ryding towards the toun.</p>
+
+<p>  O see ze nat, my mirry men a'?<br>
+    O see za nat quhat I see?<br>
+  Methinks I see a host of men:<br>
+    I marveil quha they be.</p>
+
+<p>  She weend it had been hir luvely lord,<br>
+    As he cam ryding hame;<br>
+  It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon,<br>
+    Quha reckt nae sin nor shame.</p>
+
+<p>  She had nae sooner buskit hirsel,<br>
+    And putten on hir goun,<br>
+  But Edom o' Gordon and his men<br>
+    Were round about the toun.</p>
+
+<p>  They had nae sooner supper sett,<br>
+    Nae sooner said the grace,<br>
+  But Edom o' Gordon and his men<br>
+    Were light about the place.</p>
+
+<p>  The lady ran up to hir towir head,<br>
+    Sa fast as she could hie,<br>
+  To see if by hir fair speech&egrave;s<br>
+    She could wi' him agree.</p>
+
+<p>  But quhan he see this lady saif,<br>
+    And hir yates all locked fast,<br>
+  He fell into a rage of wrath,<br>
+    And his look was all aghast.</p>
+
+<p>  Cum doun to me, ze lady gay,<br>
+    Cum doun, cum doun to me:<br>
+  This night sall ye lig within mine armes,<br>
+    To-morrow my bride sall be.</p>
+
+<p>  I winnae cum doun ze fals Gord&ograve;n,<br>
+    I winnae cum doun to thee;<br>
+  I winna forsake my ain dear lord,<br>
+    That is sae far frae me.</p>
+
+<p>  Give owre zour house, ze lady fair,<br>
+    Give owre zour house to me,<br>
+  Or I sall brenn yoursel therein,<br>
+    Bot and zour babies three.</p>
+
+<p>  I winnae give owre, ze false Gord&ograve;n,<br>
+    To nae sik traitor as zee;<br>
+  And if ze brenn my ain dear babes,<br>
+    My lord sall make ze drie.</p>
+
+<p>  But reach my pistoll, Glaud my man,<br>
+    And charge ze weil my gun:<br>
+  For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher,<br>
+    My babes we been undone.</p>
+
+<p>  She stude upon hir castle wa',<br>
+    And let twa bullets flee:<br>
+  She mist that bluidy butchers hart,<br>
+    And only raz'd his knee.</p>
+
+<p>  Set fire to the house, quo' fals Gord&ograve;n,<br>
+    All wood wi' dule and ire:<br>
+  Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid,<br>
+    As ze bren in the fire.</p>
+
+<p>  Wae worth, wae worth ze, Jock my man,<br>
+    I paid ze weil zour fee;<br>
+  Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane,<br>
+    Lets in the reek to me?</p>
+
+<p>  And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man,<br>
+    I paid ze weil zour hire;<br>
+  Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane,<br>
+    To me lets in the fire?</p>
+
+<p>  Ze paid me weil my hire, lady;<br>
+    Ze paid me weil my fee:<br>
+  But now I'm Edom o' Gordons man,<br>
+    Maun either doe or die.</p>
+
+<p>  O than bespaik hir little son,<br>
+    Sate on the nurses knee:<br>
+  Sayes, Mither deare, gi' owre this house,<br>
+    For the reek it smithers me.</p>
+
+<p>  I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe,<br>
+    Say wald I a' my fee,<br>
+  For ane blast o' the western wind,<br>
+    To blaw the reek frae thee.</p>
+
+<p>  O then bespaik hir dochter dear,<br>
+    She was baith jimp and sma;<br>
+  O row me in a pair o' sheits,<br>
+    And tow me owre the wa.</p>
+
+<p>  They rowd hir in a pair o' sheits,<br>
+    And towd hir owre the wa:<br>
+  But on the point of Gordons spear<br>
+    She gat a deadly fa.</p>
+
+<p>  O bonnie bonnie was hir mouth,<br>
+    And cherry were her cheiks,<br>
+  And clear clear was hir zellow hair,<br>
+    Whereon the reid bluid dreips.</p>
+
+<p>  Then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre,<br>
+    O gin hir face was wan!<br>
+  He sayd, Ze are the first that eir<br>
+    I wisht alive again.</p>
+
+<p>  He turnd hir owre and owre againe,<br>
+    O gin hir skin was whyte!<br>
+  I might ha spared that bonnie face<br>
+    To hae been sum mans delyte.</p>
+
+<p>  Busk and boun, my merry men a',<br>
+    For ill dooms I doe guess;<br>
+  I cannae luik in that bonnie face,<br>
+    As it lyes on the grass.</p>
+
+<p>  Thame, luiks to freits, my master deir,<br>
+    Then freits wil follow thame:<br>
+  Let neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon<br>
+    Was daunted by a dame.</p>
+
+<p>  But quhen the ladye see the fire<br>
+    Cum flaming owre hir head,<br>
+  She wept and kist her children twain,<br>
+    Sayd, Bairns, we been but dead.</p>
+
+<p>  The Gordon then his bougill blew,<br>
+    And said, Awa', awa';<br>
+  This house o' the Rodes is a' in flame,<br>
+    I hauld it time to ga'.</p>
+
+<p>  O then bespyed hir ain dear lord,<br>
+    As hee cam owr the lee;<br>
+  He sied his castle all in blaze     Sa far as he could see.</p>
+
+<p>  Then sair, O sair his mind misgave,<br>
+    And all his hart was wae;<br>
+  Put on, put on, my wighty men,<br>
+    So fast as ze can gae.</p>
+
+<p>  Put on, put on, my wighty men,<br>
+    Sa fast as ze can drie;<br>
+  For he that is hindmost of the thrang<br>
+    Sall neir get guid o' me.</p>
+
+<p>  Than sum they rade, and sum they rin,<br>
+    Fou fast out-owr the bent;<br>
+  But eir the foremost could get up,<br>
+    Baith lady and babes were brent.</p>
+
+<p>  He wrang his hands, he rent his hair,<br>
+    And wept in teenefu' muid:<br>
+  O traitors, for this cruel deid<br>
+    Ze sall weep tiers o' bluid.</p>
+
+<p>  And after the Gordon he is gane,<br>
+    Sa fast as he might drie.<br>
+  And soon i' the Gordon's foul hartis bluid<br>
+    He's wroken his dear ladie.</p>
+
+
+
+
+<img alt="183.jpg (28K)" src="images/183.jpg" height="369" width="440">
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2>THE BALLAD OF <a name="chap24">CHEVY CHACE</a></h2>
+<img alt="184.jpg (108K)" src="images/184.jpg" height="435" width="773">
+<br><br>
+
+
+<p>  God prosper long our noble king,<br>
+    Our lives and safetyes all;<br>
+  A woefull hunting once there did<br>
+    In Chevy-Chace befall;</p>
+
+<p>  To drive the deere with hound and horne,<br>
+    Erle Percy took his way,<br>
+  The child may rue that is unborne,<br>
+    The hunting of that day.</p>
+
+<p>  The stout Erle of Northumberland<br>
+    A vow to God did make,<br>
+  His pleasure in the Scottish woods<br>
+    Three summers days to take;</p>
+
+<p>  The cheefest harts in Chevy-chace<br>
+    To kill and beare away.<br>
+  These tydings to Erle Douglas came,<br>
+    In Scotland where he lay:</p>
+
+<p>  Who sent Erle Percy present word,<br>
+    He wold prevent his sport.<br>
+  The English erle, not fearing that,<br>
+    Did to the woods resort</p>
+
+<p>  With fifteen hundred bow-men bold;<br>
+    All chosen men of might,<br>
+  Who knew full well in time of neede<br>
+    To ayme their shafts arright.</p>
+
+<p>  The galland greyhounds swiftly ran,<br>
+    To chase the fallow deere:<br>
+  On munday they began to hunt,<br>
+    Ere day-light did appeare;</p>
+
+<p>  And long before high noone they had<br>
+    An hundred fat buckes slaine;<br>
+  Then having dined, the drovyers went<br>
+    To rouze the deare againe.</p>
+
+<p>  The bow-men mustered on the hills,<br>
+    Well able to endure;<br>
+  Theire backsides all, with speciall care,<br>
+    That day were guarded sure.</p>
+
+<p>  The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,<br>
+    The nimble deere to take,<br>
+  That with their cryes the hills and dales<br>
+    An eccho shrill did make.</p>
+
+<p>  Lord Percy to the quarry went,<br>
+    To view the slaughter'd deere;<br>
+  Quoth he, Erle Douglas promised<br>
+    This day to meet me heere:</p>
+
+<p>  But if I thought he wold not come,<br>
+    Noe longer wold I stay.<br>
+  With that, a brave younge gentleman<br>
+    Thus to the Erle did say:</p>
+
+<p>  Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,<br>
+    His men in armour bright;<br>
+  Full twenty hundred Scottish speres<br>
+    All marching in our sight;</p>
+
+<p>  All men of pleasant Tivydale,<br>
+    Fast by the river Tweede:<br>
+  O cease your sports, Erle Percy said,<br>
+    And take your bowes with speede:</p>
+
+<p>  And now with me, my countrymen,<br>
+    Your courage forth advance;<br>
+  For there was never champion yett,<br>
+    In Scotland nor in France,</p>
+
+<p>  That ever did on horsebacke come,<br>
+    But if my hap it were,<br>
+  I durst encounter man for man,<br>
+    With him to break a spere.</p>
+
+<p>  Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede,<br>
+    Most like a baron bolde,<br>
+  Rode foremost of his company,<br>
+    Whose armour shone like gold.</p>
+
+<p>  Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee,<br>
+    That hunt soe boldly heere,<br>
+  That, without my consent, doe chase<br>
+    And kill my fallow-deere.</p>
+
+<p>  The first man that did answer make<br>
+    Was noble Percy hee;<br>
+  Who sayd, Wee list not to declare,<br>
+    Nor shew whose men wee bee:<br>
+  Yet wee will spend our deerest blood,<br>
+    Thy cheefest harts to slay.<br>
+  Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe,<br>
+    And thus in rage did say,</p>
+
+<p>  Ere thus I will out-braved bee,<br>
+    One of us two shall dye:<br>
+  I know thee well, an erle thou art;<br>
+    Lord Percy, soe am I.</p>
+
+<p>  But trust me, Percy, pittye it were,<br>
+    And great offence to kill<br>
+  Any of these our guiltlesse men,<br>
+    For they have done no ill.</p>
+
+<p>  Let thou and I the battell trye,<br>
+    And set our men aside.<br>
+  Accurst bee he, Erle Percy sayd,<br>
+    By whome this is denyed.</p>
+
+<p>  Then stept a gallant squier forth,<br>
+    Witherington was his name,<br>
+  Who said, I wold not have it told<br>
+    To Henry our king for shame,</p>
+
+<p>  That ere my captaine fought on foote,<br>
+    And I stood looking on.<br>
+  You be two erles, sayd Witherington,<br>
+    And I a squier alone:</p>
+
+<p>  He doe the best that doe I may,<br>
+    While I have power to stand:<br>
+  While I have power to weeld my sword<br>
+    He fight with hart and hand.</p>
+
+<p>  Our English archers bent their bowes,<br>
+    Their harts were good and trew;<br>
+  Att the first flight of arrowes sent,<br>
+    Full four-score Scots they slew.</p>
+
+<p>  Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent,<br>
+    As Chieftain stout and good.<br>
+  As valiant Captain, all unmov'd<br>
+    The shock he firmly stood.</p>
+
+<p>  His host he parted had in three,<br>
+    As Leader ware and try'd,<br>
+  And soon his spearmen on their foes<br>
+    Bare down on every side.</p>
+
+<p>  To drive the deere with hound and horne,<br>
+    Douglas bade on the bent<br>
+  Two captaines moved with mickle might<br>
+    Their speres to shivers went.</p>
+
+<p>  Throughout the English archery<br>
+    They dealt full many a wound:<br>
+  But still our valiant Englishmen<br>
+    All firmly kept their ground:</p>
+
+<p>  And throwing strait their bows away,<br>
+    They grasp'd their swords so bright:<br>
+  And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,<br>
+    On shields and helmets light.</p>
+
+<p>  They closed full fast on every side,<br>
+    Noe slackness there was found:<br>
+  And many a gallant gentleman<br>
+    Lay gasping on the ground.</p>
+
+<p>  O Christ! it was a griefe to see;<br>
+    And likewise for to heare,<br>
+  The cries of men lying in their gore,<br>
+    And scattered here and there.</p>
+
+<p>  At last these two stout erles did meet,<br>
+    Like captaines of great might:<br>
+  Like lyons wood, they layd on lode,<br>
+    And made a cruell fight:</p>
+
+<p>  They fought untill they both did sweat,<br>
+    With swords of tempered steele;<br>
+  Untill the blood, like drops of rain,<br>
+    They tricklin downe did feele.</p>
+
+<p>  Yeeld thee, Lord Percy, Douglas sayd<br>
+    In faith I will thee bringe,<br>
+  Where thou shalt high advanced bee<br>
+    By James our Scottish king:</p>
+
+<p>  Thy ransome I will freely give,<br>
+    And this report of thee,<br>
+  Thou art the most couragious knight,<br>
+    That ever I did see.</p>
+
+<p>  Noe, Douglas, quoth Erle Percy then,<br>
+    Thy proffer I doe scorne;<br>
+  I will not yeelde to any Scott,<br>
+    That ever yett was borne.</p>
+
+<p>  With that, there came an arrow keene<br>
+    Out of an English bow,<br>
+  Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart,<br>
+    A deepe and deadlye blow:</p>
+
+<p>  Who never spake more words than these,<br>
+    Fight on, my merry men all;<br>
+  For why, my life is at an end;<br>
+    Lord Percy sees my fall.</p>
+
+<p>  Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke<br>
+    The dead man by the hand;<br>
+  And said, Erle Douglas, for thy life<br>
+    Wold I had lost my land.</p>
+
+<p>  O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed<br>
+    With sorrow for thy sake;<br>
+  For sure, a more redoubted knight<br>
+    Mischance cold never take.</p>
+
+<p>  A knight amongst the Scotts there was<br>
+    Which saw Erle Douglas dye,<br>
+  Who streight in wrath did vow revenge<br>
+    Upon the Lord Percye:</p>
+
+<p>  Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd,<br>
+    Who, with a spere most bright,<br>
+  Well-mounted on a gallant steed,<br>
+    Ran fiercely through the fight;</p>
+
+<p>  And past the English archers all,<br>
+    Without all dread or feare;<br>
+  And through Earl Percyes body then<br>
+    He thrust his hatefull spere;</p>
+
+<p>  With such a vehement force and might<br>
+    He did his body gore,<br>
+  The staff ran through the other side<br>
+    A large cloth-yard and more.</p>
+
+<p>  So thus did both these nobles dye,<br>
+    Whose courage none could staine:<br>
+  An English archer then perceiv'd<br>
+    The noble erle was slaine;</p>
+
+<p>  He had a bow bent in his hand,<br>
+    Made of a trusty tree;<br>
+  An arrow of a cloth-yard long<br>
+    Up to the head drew hee:</p>
+
+<p>  Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye,<br>
+    So right the shaft he sett,<br>
+  The grey goose-winge that was thereon,<br>
+    In his harts bloode was wette.</p>
+
+<p>  This fight did last from breake of day,<br>
+    Till setting of the sun;<br>
+  For when they rang the evening-bell,<br>
+    The battel scarce was done.</p>
+
+<p>  With stout Erle Percy there was slaine<br>
+    Sir John of Egerton,<br>
+  Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,<br>
+    Sir James that bold barr&ograve;n:</p>
+
+<p>  And with Sir George and stout Sir James,<br>
+    Both knights of good account,<br>
+  Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine,<br>
+    Whose prowesse did surmount.</p>
+
+<p>  For Witherington needs must I wayle,<br>
+    As one in doleful dumpes;<br>
+  For when his leggs were smitten off,<br>
+    He fought upon his stumpes.</p>
+
+<p>  And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine<br>
+    Sir Hugh Montgomerye,<br>
+  Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld<br>
+    One foote wold never flee.</p>
+
+<p>  Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too,<br>
+    His sisters sonne was hee;<br>
+  Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd,<br>
+    Yet saved cold not bee.</p>
+
+<p>  And the Lord Maxwell in like case<br>
+    Did with Erle Douglas dye:<br>
+  Of twenty hundred Scottish speres,<br>
+    Scarce fifty-five did flye.</p>
+
+<p>  Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,<br>
+    Went home but fifty-three;<br>
+  The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace,<br>
+    Under the greene woode tree.</p>
+
+<p>  Next day did many widowes come,<br>
+    Their husbands to bewayle;<br>
+  They washt their wounds in brinish teares,<br>
+    But all wold not prevayle.</p>
+
+<p>  Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore,<br>
+    They bare with them away:<br>
+  They kist them dead a thousand times,<br>
+    Ere they were cladd in clay.</p>
+
+<p>  The news was brought to Eddenborrow,<br>
+    Where Scottlands king did raigne,<br>
+  That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye<br>
+    Was with an arrow slaine:</p>
+
+<p>  O heavy newes, King James did say,<br>
+    Scotland may witnesse bee,<br>
+  I have not any captaine more<br>
+    Of such account as hee.</p>
+
+<p>  Like tydings to King Henry came,<br>
+    Within as short a space,<br>
+  That Percy of Northumberland<br>
+    Was slaine in Chevy-Chace:</p>
+
+<p>  Now God be with him, said our king,<br>
+    Sith it will noe better bee;<br>
+  I trust I have, within my realme,<br>
+    Five hundred as good as hee:</p>
+
+<p>  Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say,<br>
+    But I will vengeance take:<br>
+  I'll be revenged on them all,<br>
+    For brave Erle Percyes sake.</p>
+
+<p>  This vow full well the king perform'd<br>
+    After, at Humbledowne;<br>
+  In one day, fifty knights were slayne,<br>
+    With lords of great renowne:</p>
+
+<p>  And of the rest, of small acount,<br>
+    Did many thousands dye:<br>
+  Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase,<br>
+    Made by the Erle Percy.</p>
+
+<p>  God save our king, and bless this land<br>
+    With plenty, joy, and peace;<br>
+  And grant henceforth, that foule debate<br>
+    'Twixt noblemen may cease.</p>
+
+<img alt="195.jpg (87K)" src="images/195.jpg" height="597" width="785">
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap25">SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE</a></h2>
+<img alt="196.jpg (121K)" src="images/196.jpg" height="599" width="759">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  When Arthur first in court began,<br>
+    And was approved king,<br>
+   By force of armes great victorys wanne,<br>
+  And conquest home did bring,</p>
+
+<p>  Then into England straight he came<br>
+    With fifty good and able<br>
+  Knights, that resorted unto him,<br>
+    And were of his round table:</p>
+
+<p>  And he had justs and turnaments,<br>
+    Whereto were many prest,<br>
+  Wherein some knights did far excell<br>
+    And eke surmount the rest.</p>
+
+<p>  But one Sir Lancelot du Lake,<br>
+    Who was approved well,<br>
+  He for his deeds and feats of armes<br>
+    All others did excell.</p>
+
+<p>  When he had rested him a while,<br>
+    In play, and game, and sportt,<br>
+  He said he wold goe prove himselfe<br>
+    In some adventurous sort.</p>
+
+<p>  He armed rode in a forrest wide,<br>
+    And met a damsell faire,<br>
+  Who told him of adventures great,<br>
+    Whereto he gave great eare.</p>
+
+<p>  Such wold I find, quoth Lancelott:<br>
+    For that cause came I hither.<br>
+  Thou seemest, quoth shee, a knight full good,<br>
+    And I will bring thee thither.</p>
+
+<p>  Wheras a mighty knight doth dwell,<br>
+    That now is of great fame:<br>
+  Therefore tell me what wight thou art,<br>
+    And what may be thy name.</p>
+
+<p>  "My name is Lancelot du Lake."<br>
+    Quoth she, it likes me than:<br>
+  Here dwelles a knight who never was<br>
+    Yet matcht with any man:</p>
+
+<p>  Who has in prison threescore knights<br>
+    And four, that he did wound;<br>
+  Knights of King Arthurs court they be,<br>
+    And of his table round.</p>
+
+<p>  She brought him to a river side,<br>
+    And also to a tree,<br>
+  Whereon a copper bason hung,<br>
+    And many shields to see.</p>
+
+<p>  He struck soe hard, the bason broke;<br>
+    And Tarquin soon he spyed:<br>
+  Who drove a horse before him fast,<br>
+    Whereon a knight lay tyed.</p>
+
+<p>  Sir knight, then sayd Sir Lancelett,<br>
+    Bring me that horse-load hither,<br>
+  And lay him downe, and let him rest;<br>
+    Weel try our force together:</p>
+
+<p>  For, as I understand, thou hast,<br>
+    So far as thou art able,<br>
+  Done great despite and shame unto<br>
+    The knights of the Round Table.</p>
+
+<p>  If thou be of the Table Round,<br>
+    Quoth Tarquin speedilye,<br>
+  Both thee and all thy fellowship<br>
+    I utterly defye.</p>
+
+<p>  That's over much, quoth Lancelott tho,<br>
+    Defend thee by and by.<br>
+  They sett their speares unto their steeds,<br>
+    And eache att other flie.</p>
+
+<p>  They coucht theire speares (their horses ran,<br>
+    As though there had beene thunder),<br>
+  And strucke them each immidst their shields,<br>
+    Wherewith they broke in sunder.</p>
+
+<p>  Their horsses backes brake under them,<br>
+    The knights were both astound:<br>
+  To avoyd their horsses they made haste<br>
+    And light upon the ground.</p>
+
+<p>  They tooke them to their shields full fast,<br>
+    Their swords they drewe out than,<br>
+  With mighty strokes most eagerlye<br>
+    Each at the other ran.</p>
+
+<p>  They wounded were, and bled full sore,<br>
+    They both for breath did stand,<br>
+  And leaning on their swords awhile,<br>
+    Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand,</p>
+
+<p>  And tell to me what I shall aske.<br>
+    Say on, quoth Lancelot tho.<br>
+  Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight<br>
+    That ever I did know:</p>
+
+<p>  And like a knight, that I did hate:<br>
+    Soe that thou be not hee,<br>
+  I will deliver all the rest,<br>
+    And eke accord with thee.</p>
+
+<p>  That is well said, quoth Lancelott;<br>
+    But sith it must be soe,<br>
+  What knight is that thou hatest thus<br>
+    I pray thee to me show.</p>
+
+<p>  His name is Lancelot du Lake,<br>
+    He slew my brother deere;<br>
+  Him I suspect of all the rest:<br>
+    I would I had him here.</p>
+
+<p>  Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne,<br>
+    I am Lancelot du Lake,<br>
+  Now knight of Arthurs Table Round;<br>
+    King Hauds son of Schuwake;</p>
+
+<p>  And I desire thee to do thy worst.<br>
+    Ho, ho, quoth Tarquin tho'<br>
+  One of us two shall ende our lives<br>
+    Before that we do go.</p>
+
+<p>  If thou be Lancelot du Lake,<br>
+    Then welcome shalt thou bee:<br>
+  Wherfore see thou thyself defend,<br>
+    For now defye I thee.</p>
+
+<p>  They buckled them together so,<br>
+    Like unto wild boares rashing;<br>
+  And with their swords and shields they ran<br>
+    At one another slashing:</p>
+
+<p>  The ground besprinkled was with blood:<br>
+    Tarquin began to yield;<br>
+  For he gave backe for wearinesse,<br>
+    And lowe did beare his shield.</p>
+
+<p>  This soone Sir Lancelot espyde,<br>
+    He leapt upon him then,<br>
+  He pull'd him downe upon his knee,<br>
+    And rushing off his helm,</p>
+
+<p>  Forthwith he strucke his necke in two,<br>
+    And, when he had soe done,<br>
+  From prison threescore knights and four<br>
+    Delivered everye one.</p>
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap26">GIL MORRICE</a></h2>
+<img alt="202.jpg (110K)" src="images/202.jpg" height="585" width="776">
+<br><br>
+<a name="morrice"></a>
+<img alt="morrice.jpg (179K)" src="images/morrice.jpg" height="1024" width="750">
+
+<p>  Gil Morrice was an erles son,<br>
+     His name it waxed wide;<br>
+    It was nae for his great riches,<br>
+  Nor zet his mickle pride;<br>
+  Bot it was for a lady gay,<br>
+    That livd on Carron side.</p>
+
+<p>  Quhair sail I get a bonny boy,<br>
+    That will win hose and shoen;<br>
+  That will gae to Lord Barnards ha',<br>
+    And bid his lady cum?<br>
+  And ze maun rin my errand, Willie;<br>
+    And ze may rin wi' pride;<br>
+  Quhen other boys gae on their foot<br>
+    On horse-back ze sail ride.</p>
+
+<p>  O no! Oh no! my master dear!<br>
+    I dare nae for my life;<br>
+  I'll no gae to the bauld bar&ograve;ns,<br>
+    For to triest furth his wife.<br>
+  My bird Willie, my boy Willie;<br>
+    My dear Willie, he sayd:<br>
+  How can ze strive against the stream?<br>
+    For I sall be obeyd.</p>
+
+<p>  Bot, O my master dear! he cryd,<br>
+    In grene wod ze're zour lain;<br>
+  Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede,<br>
+    For fear ze should be tain.<br>
+  Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',<br>
+    Bid hir cum here wi speid:<br>
+  If ze refuse my heigh command,<br>
+    Ill gar zour body bleid.</p>
+
+<p>  Gae bid hir take this gay mantel,<br>
+    'Tis a' gowd hot the hem;<br>
+  Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,<br>
+    And bring nane bot hir lain:<br>
+  And there it is a silken sarke,<br>
+    Hir ain hand sewd the sleive;<br>
+  And bid hir cum to Gill Morice,<br>
+    Speir nae bauld barons leave.</p>
+
+<p>  Yes, I will gae zour black errand,<br>
+    Though it be to zour cost;<br>
+  Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd,<br>
+    In it ze sail find frost.<br>
+  The baron he is a man of might,<br>
+    He neir could bide to taunt,<br>
+  As ze will see before its nicht,<br>
+    How sma' ze hae to vaunt.</p>
+
+<p>  And sen I maun zour errand rin<br>
+    Sae sair against my will,<br>
+  I'se mak a vow and keip it trow,<br>
+    It sall be done for ill.<br>
+  And quhen he came to broken brigue,<br>
+    He bent his bow and swam;<br>
+  And quhen he came to grass growing,<br>
+    Set down his feet and ran.</p>
+
+<p>  And quhen he came to Barnards ha',<br>
+    Would neither chap nor ca':<br>
+  Bot set his bent bow to his breist,<br>
+    And lichtly lap the wa'.<br>
+  He wauld nae tell the man his errand,<br>
+    Though he stude at the gait;<br>
+  Bot straiht into the ha' he cam,<br>
+    Quhair they were set at meit.</p>
+
+<p>  Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame!<br>
+    My message winna waite;<br>
+  Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod<br>
+    Before that it be late.<br>
+  Ze're bidden tak this gay mant&egrave;l,<br>
+    Tis a' gowd bot the hem:<br>
+  Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode,<br>
+    Ev'n by your sel alane.</p>
+
+<p>  And there it is, a silken sarke,<br>
+    Your ain hand sewd the sleive;<br>
+  Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice:<br>
+    Speir nae bauld barons leave.<br>
+  The lady stamped wi' hir foot,<br>
+    And winked wi' hir ee;<br>
+  Bot a' that she coud say or do,<br>
+    Forbidden he wad nae bee.</p>
+
+<p>  Its surely to my bow'r-wom&agrave;n;<br>
+    It neir could be to me.<br>
+  I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;<br>
+    I trow that ze be she.<br>
+  Then up and spack the wylie nurse,<br>
+    (The bairn upon hir knee)<br>
+  If it be cum frae Gill Morice,<br>
+    It's deir welcum to mee.</p>
+
+<p>  Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse,<br>
+    Sae loud I heird zee lee;<br>
+  I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;<br>
+    I trow ze be nae shee.<br>
+  Then up and spack the bauld bar&ograve;n,<br>
+    An angry man was hee;<br>
+  He's tain the table wi' his foot,<br>
+    Sae has he wi' his knee;<br>
+  Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish<br>
+    In flinders he gard flee.</p>
+
+<p>  Gae bring a robe of zour clid&igrave;ng,<br>
+    That hings upon the pin;<br>
+  And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,<br>
+    And speik wi' zour lemm&agrave;n.<br>
+  O bide at hame, now Lord Barn&agrave;rd,<br>
+    I warde ze bide at hame;<br>
+  Neir wyte a man for violence,<br>
+    That neir wate ze wi' nane.</p>
+
+<p>  Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode,<br>
+    He whistled and he sang:<br>
+  O what mean a' the folk com&igrave;ng,<br>
+    My mother tarries lang.<br>
+  His hair was like the threeds of gold,<br>
+    Drawne frae Minerva's loome:<br>
+  His lipps like roses drapping dew,<br>
+    His breath was a' perfume.</p>
+
+<p>  His brow was like the mountain snae<br>
+    Gilt by the morning beam:<br>
+  His cheeks like living roses glow:<br>
+    His een like azure stream.  The boy was clad in robes of
+grene,<br>
+    Sweete as the infant spring:<br>
+  And like the mavis on the bush,<br>
+    He gart the vallies ring.</p>
+
+<p>  The baron came to the grene wode,<br>
+    Wi' mickle dule and care,<br>
+  And there he first spied Gill Morice<br>
+    Kameing his zellow hair:<br>
+  That sweetly wavd around his face,<br>
+    That face beyond compare:<br>
+  He sang sae sweet it might dispel<br>
+    A' rage but fell despair.</p>
+
+<p>  Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Mor&igrave;ce,<br>
+    My lady loed thee weel,<br>
+  The fairest part of my bodie<br>
+    Is blacker than thy heel.<br>
+  Zet neir the less now, Gill Mor&igrave;ce,<br>
+    For a' thy great beauti&egrave;,<br>
+  Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;<br>
+    That head sall gae wi' me.</p>
+
+<p>  Now he has drawn his trusty brand,<br>
+    And slaited on the strae;<br>
+  And thro' Gill Morice' fair body<br>
+    He's gar cauld iron gae.<br>
+  And he has tain Gill Morice's head<br>
+    And set it on a speir;<br>
+  The meanest man in a' his train<br>
+    Has gotten that head to bear.</p>
+
+<p>  And he has tain Gill Morice up,<br>
+    Laid him across his steid,<br>
+  And brocht him to his painted bowr,<br>
+    And laid him on a bed.<br>
+  The lady sat on castil wa',<br>
+    Beheld baith dale and doun;<br>
+  And there she saw Gill Morice' head<br>
+    Cum trailing to the toun.</p>
+
+<p>  Far better I loe that bluidy head,<br>
+    Both and that zellow hair,<br>
+  Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands,<br>
+    As they lig here and thair.<br>
+  And she has tain her Gill Morice,<br>
+    And kissd baith mouth and chin:<br>
+  I was once as fow of Gill Morice,<br>
+    As the hip is o' the stean.</p>
+
+<p>  I got ze in my father's house,<br>
+    Wi' mickle sin and shame;<br>
+  I brocht thee up in gude grene wode,<br>
+    Under the heavy rain.<br>
+  Oft have I by thy cradle sitten,<br>
+    And fondly seen thee sleip;<br>
+  But now I gae about thy grave,<br>
+    The saut tears for to weip.</p>
+
+<p>  And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,<br>
+    And syne his bluidy chin:<br>
+  O better I loe my Gill Morice<br>
+    Than a' my kith and kin!<br>
+  Away, away, ze ill wom&agrave;n,<br>
+    And an il deith mait ze dee:<br>
+  Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son,<br>
+    He'd neir bin slain for mee.</p>
+
+<p>  Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard!<br>
+    Obraid me not for shame!<br>
+  Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart!<br>
+    And put me out o' pain.<br>
+  Since nothing bot Gill Morice head<br>
+    Thy jelous rage could quell,<br>
+  Let that saim hand now tak hir life,<br>
+    That neir to thee did ill.</p>
+
+<p>  To me nae after days nor nichts<br>
+    Will eir be saft or kind;<br>
+  I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,<br>
+    And greet till I am blind.<br>
+  Enouch of blood by me's been spilt,<br>
+    Seek not zour death frae mee;<br>
+  I rather lourd it had been my sel<br>
+    Than eather him or thee.</p>
+
+<p>  With waefo wae I hear zour plaint;<br>
+    Sair, sair I rew the deid,<br>
+  That eir this cursed hand of mine<br>
+    Had gard his body bleid.<br>
+  Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame,<br>
+    Ze neir can heal the wound;<br>
+  Ze see his head upon the speir,<br>
+    His heart's blude on the ground.</p>
+
+<p>  I curse the hand that did the deid,<br>
+    The heart that thocht the ill;<br>
+  The feet that bore me wi' sik speid,<br>
+    The comely zouth to kill.<br>
+  I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,<br>
+    As gin he were mine ain;<br>
+  I'll neir forget the dreiry day<br>
+    On which the zouth was slain.</p>
+
+
+<img alt="210.jpg (37K)" src="images/210.jpg" height="372" width="356">
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap27">THE CHILD OF ELLE</a></h2>
+<img alt="211.jpg (72K)" src="images/211.jpg" height="565" width="782">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  On yondre hill a castle standes<br>
+    With walles and towres bedight,<br>
+   And yonder lives the Child of Elle,<br>
+  A younge and comely knighte.</p>
+
+<p>  The Child of Elle to his garden went,<br>
+    And stood at his garden pale,<br>
+  Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page<br>
+    Come trippinge downe the dale.</p>
+
+<p>  The Child of Elle he hyed him thence,<br>
+    Y-wis he stoode not stille,<br>
+  And soone he mette faire Emmelines page<br>
+    Come climbinge up the hille.</p>
+
+<p>  Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page,<br>
+    Now Christe thee save and see!<br>
+  Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye,<br>
+    And what may thy tydinges bee?</p>
+
+<p>  My ladye shee is all woe-begone,<br>
+    And the teares they falle from her eyne;<br>
+  And aye she laments the deadlye feude<br>
+    Betweene her house and thine.</p>
+
+<p>  And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe<br>
+    Bedewde with many a teare,<br>
+  And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her,<br>
+    Who loved thee so deare.</p>
+
+<p>  And here shee sends thee a ring of golde<br>
+    The last boone thou mayst have,<br>
+  And biddes thee weare it for her sake,<br>
+    Whan she is layde in grave.</p>
+
+<p>  For, ah! her gentle heart is broke,<br>
+    And in grave soone must shee bee,<br>
+  Sith her father hath chose her a new new love,<br>
+    And forbidde her to think of thee.</p>
+
+<p>  Her father hath brought her a carlish knight,<br>
+    Sir John of the north countr&agrave;ye,<br>
+  And within three dayes she must him wedde,<br>
+    Or he vowes he will her slaye.</p>
+
+<p>  Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,<br>
+    And greet thy ladye from mee,<br>
+  And telle her that I her owne true love<br>
+    Will dye, or sette her free.</p>
+
+<p>  Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,<br>
+    And let thy fair ladye know<br>
+  This night will I bee at her bowre-wind&ograve;we,<br>
+    Betide me weale or woe.</p>
+
+<p>  The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne,<br>
+    He neither stint ne stayd<br>
+  Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre,<br>
+    Whan kneeling downe he sayd,</p>
+
+<p>  O ladye, I've been with thine own true love,<br>
+    And he greets thee well by mee;<br>
+  This night will hee bee at thy bowre-wind&ograve;we,<br>
+    And dye or sett thee free.</p>
+
+<p>  Nowe daye was gone, and night was come,<br>
+    And all were fast asleepe,<br>
+  All save the Ladye Emmeline,<br>
+    Who sate in her bowre to weepe:</p>
+
+<p>  And soone shee heard her true loves voice<br>
+    Lowe whispering at the walle,<br>
+  Awake, awake, my deare lady&egrave;,<br>
+    Tis I thy true love call.</p>
+
+<p>  Awake, awake, my ladye deare,<br>
+    Come, mount this faire palfr&agrave;ye:<br>
+  This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe<br>
+    He carrye thee hence awaye.</p>
+
+<p>  Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight,<br>
+    Nowe nay, this may not bee;<br>
+  For aye shold I tint my maiden fame,<br>
+    If alone I should wend with thee.</p>
+
+<p>  O ladye, thou with a knighte so true<br>
+    Mayst safelye wend alone,<br>
+  To my ladye mother I will thee bringe,<br>
+    Where marriage shall make us one.</p>
+
+<p>  "My father he is a baron bolde,<br>
+    Of lynage proude and hye;<br>
+  And what would he saye if his daught&egrave;r<br>
+    Awaye with a knight should fly</p>
+
+<p>  "Ah! well I wot, he never would rest,<br>
+    Nor his meate should doe him no goode,<br>
+  Until he hath slayne thee, Child of Elle,<br>
+    And scene thy deare hearts bloode."</p>
+
+<p>  O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,<br>
+    And a little space him fro,<br>
+  I would not care for thy cruel fath&egrave;r,<br>
+    Nor the worst that he could doe.</p>
+
+<p>  O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,<br>
+    And once without this walle,<br>
+  I would not care for thy cruel fath&egrave;r<br>
+    Nor the worst that might befalle.</p>
+
+<p>  Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept,<br>
+    And aye her heart was woe:<br>
+  At length he seized her lilly-white hand,<br>
+    And downe the ladder he drewe:</p>
+
+<p>  And thrice he clasped her to his breste,<br>
+    And kist her tenderl&igrave;e:<br>
+  The teares that fell from her fair eyes<br>
+    Ranne like the fountayne free.</p>
+
+<p>  Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle,<br>
+    And her on a fair palfr&agrave;ye,<br>
+  And slung his bugle about his necke,<br>
+    And roundlye they rode awaye.</p>
+
+<p>  All this beheard her owne dams&egrave;lle,<br>
+    In her bed whereas shee ley,<br>
+  Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this,<br>
+    Soe I shall have golde and fee.</p>
+
+<p>  Awake, awake, thou baron bolde!<br>
+    Awake, my noble dame!<br>
+  Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle<br>
+    To doe the deede of shame.</p>
+
+<p>  The baron he woke, the baron he rose,<br>
+    And called his merrye men all:<br>
+  "And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte,<br>
+    Thy ladye is carried to thrall."</p>
+
+<p>  Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile,<br>
+    A mile forth of the towne,<br>
+  When she was aware of her fathers men<br>
+    Come galloping over the downe:</p>
+
+<p>  And foremost came the carlish knight,<br>
+    Sir John of the north countr&agrave;ye:<br>
+  "Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false trait&ograve;ure,<br>
+    Nor carry that ladye awaye.</p>
+
+<p>  "For she is come of hye line&agrave;ge,<br>
+    And was of a ladye borne,<br>
+  And ill it beseems thee, a false churl's sonne,<br>
+    To carrye her hence to scorne."</p>
+
+<p>  Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight,<br>
+    Nowe thou doest lye of mee;<br>
+  A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore,<br>
+    Soe never did none by thee</p>
+
+<p>  But light nowe downe, my ladye faire,<br>
+    Light downe, and hold my steed,<br>
+  While I and this discourteous knighte<br>
+    Doe trye this arduous deede.</p>
+
+<p>  But light now downe, my deare lady&egrave;,<br>
+    Light downe, and hold my horse;<br>
+  While I and this discourteous knight<br>
+    Doe trye our valour's force.</p>
+
+<p>  Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept,<br>
+    And aye her heart was woe,<br>
+  While twixt her love and the carlish knight<br>
+    Past many a baleful blowe.</p>
+
+<p>  The Child of Elle hee fought so well,<br>
+    As his weapon he waved amaine,<br>
+  That soone he had slaine the carlish knight,<br>
+    And layd him upon the plaine.</p>
+
+<p>  And nowe the baron and all his men<br>
+    Full fast approached nye:<br>
+  Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe<br>
+    Twere nowe no boote to flye.</p>
+
+<p>  Her lover he put his horne to his mouth,<br>
+    And blew both loud and shrill,<br>
+  And soone he saw his owne merry men<br>
+    Come ryding over the hill.</p>
+
+<p>  "Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold bar&ograve;n,<br>
+    I pray thee hold thy hand,<br>
+  Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts<br>
+    Fast knit in true love's band.</p>
+
+<p>  Thy daughter I have dearly loved<br>
+    Full long and many a day;<br>
+  But with such love as holy kirke<br>
+    Hath freelye sayd wee may.</p>
+
+<p>  O give consent, shee may be mine,<br>
+    And blesse a faithfull paire:<br>
+  My lands and livings are not small,<br>
+    My house and lineage faire:</p>
+
+<p>  My mother she was an earl's daught&egrave;r,<br>
+    And a noble knyght my sire--<br>
+  The baron he frowned, and turn'd away<br>
+    With mickle dole and ire.</p>
+
+<p>  Fair Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept,<br>
+    And did all tremblinge stand:<br>
+  At lengthe she sprang upon her knee,<br>
+    And held his lifted hand.</p>
+
+<p>  Pardon, my lorde and father deare,<br>
+    This faire yong knyght and mee:<br>
+  Trust me, but for the carlish knyght,<br>
+    I never had fled from thee.</p>
+
+<p>  Oft have you called your Emmeline<br>
+    Your darling and your joye;<br>
+  O let not then your harsh resolves<br>
+    Your Emmeline destroye.</p>
+
+<p>  The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke,<br>
+    And turned his heade asyde<br>
+  To whipe awaye the starting teare<br>
+    He proudly strave to hyde.</p>
+
+<p>  In deepe revolving thought he stoode,<br>
+    And mused a little space;<br>
+  Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounde,<br>
+    With many a fond embrace.</p>
+
+<p>  Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd,<br>
+    And gave her lillye white hand;<br>
+  Here take my deare and only child,<br>
+    And with her half my land:</p>
+
+<p>  Thy father once mine honour wrongde<br>
+    In dayes of youthful pride;<br>
+  Do thou the injurye repayre<br>
+    In fondnesse for thy bride.</p>
+
+<p>  And as thou love her, and hold her deare,<br>
+    Heaven prosper thee and thine:<br>
+  And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee,<br>
+    My lovelye Emmeline.</p>
+
+<img alt="221.jpg (25K)" src="images/221.jpg" height="394" width="218">
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap28">CHILD WATERS</a></h2>
+<img alt="222.jpg (138K)" src="images/222.jpg" height="626" width="773">
+<br><br>
+<a name="childwaters"></a>
+<img alt="childwafers.jpg (166K)" src="images/childwafers.jpg" height="1021" width="750">
+
+<p>  Childe Waters in his stable stoode<br>
+    And stroakt his milke white steede:<br>
+  To him a fayre yonge ladye came<br>
+    As ever ware womans weede.</p>
+
+<p>  Sayes, Christ you save, good Childe Waters;<br>
+    Sayes, Christ you save, and see:<br>
+  My girdle of gold that was too longe,<br>
+    Is now too short for mee.</p>
+
+<p>  And all is with one chyld of yours,<br>
+    I feel sturre att my side:<br>
+  My gowne of greene it is too straighte;<br>
+    Before, it was too wide.</p>
+
+<p>  If the child be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd,<br>
+    Be mine, as you tell mee;<br>
+  Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,<br>
+    Take them your owne to bee.</p>
+
+<p>  If the childe be mine, fair Ellen, he sayd,<br>
+    Be mine, as you doe sweare;<br>
+  Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,<br>
+    And make that child your heyre.</p>
+
+<p>  Shee saies, I had rather have one kisse,<br>
+    Child Waters, of thy mouth;<br>
+  Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,<br>
+    That laye by north and south.</p>
+
+<p>  And I had rather have one twinkling,<br>
+    Childe Waters, of thine ee;<br>
+  Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,<br>
+    To take them mine owne to bee.</p>
+
+<p>  To morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde<br>
+    Farr into the north countrie;<br>
+  The fairest lady that I can find,<br>
+    Ellen, must goe with mee.</p>
+
+<p>  'Thoughe I am not that lady fayre,<br>
+    'Yet let me go with thee:'<br>
+  And ever I pray you, Child Wat&egrave;rs,<br>
+    Your foot-page let me bee.</p>
+
+<p>  If you will my foot-page be, Ellen,<br>
+    As you doe tell to mee;<br>
+  Then you must cut your gowne of greene,<br>
+    An inch above your knee:</p>
+
+<p>  Soe must you doe your yellow lockes,<br>
+    An inch above your ee:<br>
+  You must tell no man what is my name;<br>
+    My foot-page then you shall bee.</p>
+
+<p>  Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode,<br>
+    Ran barefoote by his side;<br>
+  Yett was he never soe courteous a knighte,<br>
+    To say, Ellen, will you ryde?</p>
+
+<p>  Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode,<br>
+    Ran barefoote thorow the broome;<br>
+  Yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte,<br>
+    To say, put on your shoone.</p>
+
+<p>  Ride softlye, shee sayd, O Childe Waters,<br>
+    Why doe you ryde soe fast?<br>
+  The childe, which is no mans but thine,<br>
+    My bodye itt will brast.</p>
+
+<p>  Hee sayth, seeth thou yonder water, Ellen,<br>
+    That flows from bank to brimme?--<br>
+  I trust to God, O Child Waters,<br>
+    You never will see mee swimme.</p>
+
+<p>  But when shee came to the waters side,<br>
+    Shee sayled to the chinne:<br>
+  Except the Lord of heaven be my speed,<br>
+    Now must I learne to swimme.</p>
+
+<p>  The salt waters bare up her clothes;<br>
+    Our Ladye bare upp her chinne:<br>
+  Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord,<br>
+    To see faire Ellen swimme.</p>
+
+<p>  And when shee over the water was,<br>
+    Shee then came to his knee:<br>
+  He said, Come hither, thou fair Ell&egrave;n,<br>
+    Loe yonder what I see.</p>
+
+<p>  Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?<br>
+    Of redd gold shines the yate;<br>
+  Of twenty foure faire ladyes there,<br>
+    The fairest is my mate.</p>
+
+<p>  Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?<br>
+    Of redd gold shines the towre:<br>
+  There are twenty four fair ladyes there,<br>
+    The fairest is my paramoure.</p>
+
+<p>  I see the hall now, Child Waters,<br>
+    Of redd golde shines the yate:<br>
+  God give you good now of yourselfe,<br>
+    And of your worthye mate.</p>
+
+<p>  I see the hall now, Child Waters,<br>
+    Of redd gold shines the towre:<br>
+  God give you good now of yourselfe,<br>
+    And of your paramoure.</p>
+
+<p>  There twenty four fayre ladyes were<br>
+    A playing att the ball:<br>
+  And Ellen the fairest ladye there,<br>
+    Must bring his steed to the stall.</p>
+
+<p>  There twenty four fayre ladyes were<br>
+    A playinge at the chesse;<br>
+  And Ellen the fayrest ladye there,<br>
+    Must bring his horse to gresse.</p>
+
+<p>  And then bespake Childe Waters sister,<br>
+    These were the wordes said shee:<br>
+  You have the prettyest foot-page, brother,<br>
+    That ever I saw with mine ee.</p>
+
+<p>  But that his bellye it is soe bigg,<br>
+    His girdle goes wonderous hie:<br>
+  And let him, I pray you, Childe Wat&egrave;res,<br>
+    Goe into the chamber with mee.</p>
+
+<p>  It is not fit for a little foot-page,<br>
+    That has run throughe mosse and myre,<br>
+  To go into the chamber with any ladye,<br>
+    That weares soe riche attyre.</p>
+
+<p>  It is more meete for a litle foot-page,<br>
+    That has run throughe mosse and myre,<br>
+  To take his supper upon his knee,<br>
+    And sitt downe by the kitchen fyer.</p>
+
+<p>  But when they had supped every one,<br>
+    To bedd they tooke theyr waye:<br>
+  He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page,<br>
+    And hearken what I saye.</p>
+
+<p>  Goe thee downe into yonder towne,<br>
+    And low into the street;<br>
+  The fayrest ladye that thou can finde,</p>
+
+<p>    Hyer her in mine armes to sleepe,<br>
+  And take her up in thine armes twaine,<br>
+    For filinge of her feete.</p>
+
+<p>  Ellen is gone into the towne,<br>
+    And low into the streete:<br>
+  The fairest ladye that she cold find,<br>
+    Shee hyred in his armes to sleepe;<br>
+  And tooke her up in her armes twayne,<br>
+    For filing of her feete.</p>
+
+<p>  I pray you nowe, good Child Wat&egrave;rs,<br>
+    Let mee lye at your bedds feete:<br>
+  For there is noe place about this house,<br>
+    Where I may 'saye a sleepe.</p>
+
+<p>  'He gave her leave, and faire Ell&egrave;n<br>
+    'Down at his beds feet laye:'<br>
+  This done the nighte drove on apace,<br>
+    And when it was neare the daye,</p>
+
+<p>  Hee sayd, Rise up, my litle foot-page,<br>
+    Give my steede corne and haye;<br>
+  And soe doe thou the good black oats,<br>
+    To carry mee better awaye.</p>
+
+<p>  Up then rose the faire Ell&egrave;n,<br>
+    And gave his steede corne and hay:<br>
+  And soe shee did the good blacke oats,<br>
+    To carry him the better away.</p>
+
+<p>  Shee leaned her backe to the manger side,<br>
+    And grievouslye did groane:<br>
+  Shee leaned her backe to the manger side,<br>
+    And there shee made her moane.</p>
+
+<p>  And that beheard his mother deere,<br>
+    Shee heard her there monand.<br>
+  Shee sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Wat&egrave;rs,<br>
+    I think thee a cursed man.</p>
+
+<p>  For in thy stable is a ghost,<br>
+    That grievouslye doth grone:<br>
+  Or else some woman laboures of childe,<br>
+    She is soe woe-begone.</p>
+
+<p>  Up then rose Childe Waters soon,<br>
+    And did on his shirte of silke;<br>
+  And then he put on his other clothes,<br>
+    On his body as white as milke.</p>
+
+<p>  And when he came to the stable dore,<br>
+    Full still there he did stand,<br>
+  That hee mighte heare his fayre Ell&egrave;n<br>
+    Howe shee made her mon&agrave;nd.</p>
+
+<p>  Shee sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deere child,<br>
+    Lullabye, dere child, dere;<br>
+  I wold thy father were a king,<br>
+    Thy mother layd on a biere.</p>
+
+<p>  Peace now, he said, good faire Ell&egrave;n,<br>
+    Be of good cheere, I praye;<br>
+  And the bridal and the churching both<br>
+    Shall bee upon one day.</p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap29">KING EDWARD IV &amp; THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH</a></h2>
+<img alt="230.jpg (137K)" src="images/230.jpg" height="601" width="782">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  In summer time, when leaves grow greene,<br>
+     And blossoms bedecke the tree,<br>
+  King Edward wolde a hunting ryde,<br>
+    Some pastime for to see.</p>
+
+<p>  With hawke and hounde he made him bowne,<br>
+    With horne, and eke with bowe;<br>
+  To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye,<br>
+    With all his lordes a rowe.</p>
+
+<p>  And he had ridden ore dale and downe<br>
+    By eight of clocke in the day,<br>
+  When he was ware of a bold tann&egrave;r,<br>
+    Come ryding along the waye.</p>
+
+<p>  A fayre russet coat the tanner had on<br>
+    Fast buttoned under his chin,<br>
+  And under him a good cow-hide,<br>
+    And a marc of four shilling.</p>
+
+<p>  Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all,<br>
+    Under the grene wood spraye;<br>
+  And I will wend to yonder fellowe,<br>
+    To weet what he will saye.</p>
+
+<p>  God speede, God speede thee, said our king.<br>
+    Thou art welcome, Sir, sayd hee.<br>
+  "The readyest waye to Drayton Basset<br>
+    I praye thee to shew to mee."</p>
+
+<p>  "To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe,<br>
+    Fro the place where thou dost stand?<br>
+  The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto,<br>
+    Turne in upon thy right hand."</p>
+
+<p>  That is an unreadye waye, sayd our king,<br>
+    Thou doest but jest, I see;<br>
+  Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye,<br>
+    And I pray thee wend with mee.</p>
+
+<p>  Away with a vengeance! quoth the tanner:<br>
+    I hold thee out of thy witt:<br>
+  All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare,<br>
+    And I am fasting yett.</p>
+
+<p>  "Go with me downe to Drayton Basset,<br>
+    No daynties we will spare;<br>
+  All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best,<br>
+    And I will paye thy fare."</p>
+
+<p>  Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde,<br>
+    Thou payest no fare of mine:<br>
+  I trowe I've more nobles in my purse,<br>
+    Than thou hast pence in thine.</p>
+
+<p>  God give thee joy of them, sayd the king,<br>
+    And send them well to priefe.<br>
+  The tanner wolde faine have beene away,<br>
+    For he weende he had beene a thiefe.</p>
+
+<p>  What art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellowe,<br>
+    Of thee I am in great feare,<br>
+  For the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back,<br>
+    Might beseeme a lord to weare.</p>
+
+<p>  I never stole them, quoth our king,<br>
+    I tell you, Sir, by the roode.<br>
+  "Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth,<br>
+    And standest in midds of thy goode."</p>
+
+<p>  What tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge,<br>
+    As you ryde farre and neare?<br>
+  "I heare no tydinges, Sir, by the masse,<br>
+    But that cowe-hides are deare."</p>
+
+<p>  "Cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those?<br>
+     I marvell what they bee?"<br>
+  What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd;<br>
+    I carry one under mee.</p>
+
+<p>  What craftsman art thou, said the king,<br>
+    I pray thee tell me trowe.<br>
+  "I am a barker, Sir, by my trade;<br>
+    Nowe tell me what art thou?"</p>
+
+<p>  I am a poor courtier, Sir, quoth he,<br>
+    That am forth of service worne;<br>
+  And faine I wolde thy prentise bee,<br>
+    Thy cunninge for to learne.</p>
+
+<p>  Marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde,<br>
+    That thou my prentise were:<br>
+  Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne<br>
+    By fortye shilling a yere.</p>
+
+<p>  Yet one thinge wolde I, sayd our king,<br>
+    If thou wilt not seeme strange:<br>
+  Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare,<br>
+    Yet with thee I fain wold change.</p>
+
+<p>  "Why if with me thou faine wilt change,<br>
+    As change full well maye wee,<br>
+  By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe<br>
+    I will have some boot of thee."</p>
+
+<p>  That were against reason, sayd the king,<br>
+    I sweare, so mote I thee:<br>
+  My horse is better than thy mare,<br>
+    And that thou well mayst see.</p>
+
+<p>  "Yea, Sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild,<br>
+    And softly she will fare:<br>
+  Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss;<br>
+    Aye skipping here and theare."</p>
+
+<p>  What boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd;<br>
+    Now tell me in this stound.<br>
+  "Noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye,<br>
+    But a noble in gold so round.</p>
+
+<p>  "Here's twentye groates of white moneye,<br>
+    Sith thou will have it of mee."<br>
+  I would have sworne now, quoth the tanner,<br>
+    Thou hadst not had one pennie.</p>
+
+<p>  But since we two have made a change,<br>
+    A change we must abide,<br>
+  Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare,<br>
+    Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.</p>
+
+<p>  I will not have it, sayd the kynge,<br>
+    I sweare, so mought I thee;<br>
+  Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare,<br>
+    If thou woldst give it to mee.</p>
+
+<p>  The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide,<br>
+    That of the cow was bilt;<br>
+  And threwe it upon the king's sadelle,<br>
+    That was soe fayrelye gilte.<br>
+  "Now help me up, thou fine fellowe,<br>
+    'Tis time that I were gone:<br>
+  When I come home to Gyllian my wife,<br>
+    Sheel say I am a gentilmon."</p>
+
+<p>  The king he tooke him up by the legge;<br>
+    The tanner a f----- lett fall.<br>
+  Nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the king,<br>
+    Thy courtesye is but small.</p>
+
+<p>  When the tanner he was in the kinges sad&egrave;lle,<br>
+    And his foote in the stirrup was;<br>
+  He marvelled greatlye in his minde,<br>
+    Whether it were golde or brass.</p>
+
+<p>  But when the steede saw the cows taile wagge,<br>
+    And eke the blacke cowe-horne;<br>
+  He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne,<br>
+    As the devill had him borne.</p>
+
+<p>  The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat,<br>
+    And held by the pummil fast:<br>
+  At length the tanner came tumbling downe;<br>
+    His necke he had well-nye brast.</p>
+
+<p>  Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd,<br>
+    With mee he shall not byde.<br>
+  "My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe,<br>
+    But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide.</p>
+
+<p>  Yet if againe thou faine woldst change,<br>
+    As change full well may wee,<br>
+  By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tann&egrave;r,<br>
+    I will have some boote of thee."</p>
+
+<p>  What boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd,<br>
+    Nowe tell me in this stounde.<br>
+  "Noe pence nor halfpence, Sir, by my faye,<br>
+    But I will have twentye pound."</p>
+
+<p>  "Here's twentye groates out of my purse;<br>
+    And twentye I have of thine:<br>
+  And I have one more, which we will spend<br>
+    Together at the wine."</p>
+
+<p>  The king set a bugle home to his mouthe,<br>
+    And blewe both loude and shrille:<br>
+  And soone came lords, and soone came knights,<br>
+    Fast ryding over the hille.</p>
+
+<p>  Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde,<br>
+    That ever I sawe this daye!<br>
+  Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes     Will beare
+my<br>
+cowe-hide away.</p>
+
+<p>  They are no thieves, the king replyde,<br>
+    I sweare, soe mote I thee:<br>
+  But they are the lords of the north countr&egrave;y,<br>
+    Here come to hunt with mee.</p>
+
+<p>  And soone before our king they came,<br>
+    And knelt downe on the grounde:<br>
+  Then might the tanner have beene awaye,<br>
+    He had lever than twentye pounde.</p>
+
+<p>  A coller, a coller, here: sayd the king,<br>
+    A coller he loud gan crye:<br>
+  Then woulde he lever than twentye pound,<br>
+    He had not beene so nighe.</p>
+
+<p>  A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd,<br>
+    I trowe it will breed sorrowe:<br>
+  After a coller cometh a halter,<br>
+    I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrowe.</p>
+
+<p>  Be not afraid, tanner, said our king;<br>
+    I tell thee, so mought I thee,<br>
+  Lo here I make thee the best esquire<br>
+    That is in the North countrie.</p>
+
+<p>  For Plumpton-parke I will give thee,<br>
+    With tenements faire beside:<br>
+  'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,<br>
+    To maintaine thy good cowe-hide.</p>
+
+<p>  Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde,<br>
+    For the favour thou hast me showne;<br>
+  If ever thou comest to merry Tamw&ograve;rth,<br>
+    Neates leather shall clout thy shoen.</p>
+
+
+<img alt="238.jpg (24K)" src="images/238.jpg" height="418" width="259">
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap30">SIR PATRICK SPENS</a></h2>
+<img alt="239.jpg (78K)" src="images/239.jpg" height="416" width="809">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  The king sits in Dumferling toune,<br>
+    Drinking the blude-reid wine:<br>
+  O quhar will I get guid sail&ograve;r,<br>
+    To sail this schip of mine.</p>
+
+<p>  Up and spak an eldern knicht,<br>
+    Sat at the kings richt kne:<br>
+  Sir Patrick Spens is the best sail&ograve;r,<br>
+    That sails upon the se.</p>
+
+<p>  The king has written a braid letter,<br>
+    And signd it wi' his hand;<br>
+  And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,<br>
+    Was walking on the sand.</p>
+
+<p>  The first line that Sir Patrick red,<br>
+    A loud lauch lauched he:<br>
+  The next line that Sir Patrick red,<br>
+    The teir blinded his ee.</p>
+
+<p>  O quha is this has don this deid,<br>
+    This ill deid don to me;<br>
+  To send me out this time o' the zeir,<br>
+    To sail upon the se.</p>
+
+<p>  Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,<br>
+    Our guid schip sails the morne,<br>
+  O say na sae, my master deir,<br>
+    For I feir a deadlie storme.</p>
+
+<p>  Late late yestreen I saw the new moone<br>
+    Wi' the auld moone in hir arme;<br>
+  And I feir, I feir, my deir master,<br>
+    That we will com to harme.</p>
+
+<p>  O our Scots nobles wer richt laith<br>
+    To weet their cork-heild schoone;<br>
+  Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,<br>
+    Thair hats they swam aboone.</p>
+
+<p>  O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit<br>
+    Wi' thair fans into their hand,<br>
+  Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens<br>
+    Cum sailing to the land.</p>
+
+<p>  O lang, lang, may the ladies stand<br>
+    Wi' thair gold kems in their hair,<br>
+  Waiting for thair ain deir lords,<br>
+    For they'll se thame na mair.</p>
+
+<p>  Have owre, have owre to Aberdour,<br>
+    It's fiftie fadom deip:<br>
+  And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens,<br>
+    Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.</p>
+
+<img alt="241.jpg (33K)" src="images/241.jpg" height="342" width="402">
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap31">THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER</a></h2>
+<img alt="242.jpg (94K)" src="images/242.jpg" height="515" width="776">
+<br><br>
+<a name="mars"></a>
+<img alt="mars.jpg (166K)" src="images/mars.jpg" height="983" width="750">
+
+<p>  It was intill a pleasant time,<br>
+    Upon a simmer's day,<br>
+  The noble Earl of Mar's daughter<br>
+  Went forth to sport and play.</p>
+
+<p>  As thus she did amuse hersell,<br>
+    Below a green aik tree,<br>
+  There she saw a sprightly doo<br>
+    Set on a tower sae hie.</p>
+
+<p>  "O cow-me-doo, my love sae true,<br>
+    If ye'll come down to me,<br>
+  Ye 'se hae a cage o guid red gowd<br>
+    Instead o simple tree:</p>
+
+<p>  "I'll put growd hingers roun your cage,<br>
+    And siller roun your wa;<br>
+  I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird<br>
+    As ony o them a'."</p>
+
+<p>  But she hadnae these words well spoke,<br>
+    Nor yet these words well said,<br>
+  Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower<br>
+    And lighted on her head.</p>
+
+<p>  Then she has brought this pretty bird<br>
+    Hame to her bowers and ba,<br>
+  And made him shine as fair a bird<br>
+    As ony o them a'.</p>
+
+<p>  When day was gane, and night was come,<br>
+    About the evening tide,<br>
+  This lady spied a sprightly youth<br>
+    Stand straight up by her side.</p>
+
+<p>  "From whence came ye, young man?" she said;<br>
+    "That does surprise me sair;<br>
+  My door was bolted right secure,<br>
+    What way hae ye come here?"</p>
+
+<p>  "O had your tongue, ye lady fair,<br>
+    Lat a' your folly be;<br>
+  Mind ye not on your turtle-doo<br>
+    Last day ye brought wi thee?"</p>
+
+<p>  "O tell me mair, young man," she said,<br>
+    "This does surprise me now;<br>
+  What country hae ye come frae?<br>
+    What pedigree are you?"</p>
+
+<p>  "My mither lives on foreign isles,<br>
+    She has nae mair but me;<br>
+  She is a queen o wealth and state,<br>
+    And birth and high degree.</p>
+
+<p>  "Likewise well skilld in magic spells,<br>
+    As ye may plainly see,<br>
+  And she transformd me to yon shape,<br>
+    To charm such maids as thee.</p>
+
+<p>  "I am a doo the live-lang day,<br>
+    A sprightly youth at night;<br>
+  This aye gars me appear mair fair<br>
+    In a fair maiden's sight.</p>
+
+<p>  "And it was but this verra day<br>
+    That I came ower the sea;<br>
+  Your lovely face did me enchant;<br>
+    I'll live and dee wi thee."</p>
+
+<p>  "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,<br>
+    Nae mair frae me ye 'se gae;<br>
+  That's never my intent, my luve,<br>
+    As ye said, it shall be sae."</p>
+
+<p>  "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,<br>
+    It's time to gae to bed;"<br>
+  "Wi a' my heart, my dear marrow,<br>
+    It's be as ye hae said."</p>
+
+<p>  Then he has staid in bower wi her<br>
+    For sax lang years and ane,<br>
+  Till sax young sons to him she bare,<br>
+    And the seventh she's brought hame.</p>
+
+<p>  But aye as ever a child was born<br>
+    He carried them away,<br>
+  And brought them to his mither's care,<br>
+    As fast as he coud fly.</p>
+
+<p>  Thus he has staid in bower wi her<br>
+    For twenty years and three;<br>
+  There came a lord o high renown<br>
+    To court this fair ladie.</p>
+
+<p>  But still his proffer she refused,<br>
+    And a' his presents too;<br>
+  Says, I'm content to live alane<br>
+    Wi my bird, Cow-me-doo.</p>
+
+<p>  Her father sware a solemn oath<br>
+    Amang the nobles all,<br>
+  "The morn, or ere I eat or drink,<br>
+    This bird I will gar kill."</p>
+
+<p>  The bird was sitting in his cage,<br>
+    And heard what they did say;<br>
+  And when he found they were dismist,<br>
+    Says, Wae's me for this day!</p>
+
+<p>  "Before that I do langer stay,<br>
+    And thus to be forlorn,<br>
+  I'll gang unto my mither's bower,<br>
+    Where I was bred and born."</p>
+
+<p>  Then Cow-me-doo took flight and flew<br>
+    Beyond the raging sea,<br>
+  And lighted near his mither's castle,<br>
+    On a tower o gowd sae hie.</p>
+
+<p>  As his mither was wauking out,<br>
+    To see what she coud see,<br>
+  And there she saw her little son,<br>
+    Set on the tower sae hie.</p>
+
+<p>  "Get dancers here to dance," she said,<br>
+    "And minstrells for to play;<br>
+  For here's my young son, Florentine,<br>
+    Come here wi me to stay."</p>
+
+<p>  "Get nae dancers to dance, mither,<br>
+    Nor minstrells for to play,<br>
+  For the mither o my seven sons,<br>
+    The morn's her wedding-day."</p>
+
+<p>  "O tell me, tell me, Florentine,<br>
+    Tell me, and tell me true,<br>
+  Tell me this day without a flaw,<br>
+    What I will do for you."</p>
+
+<p>  "Instead of dancers to dance, mither,<br>
+    Or minstrells for to play,<br>
+  Turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men<br>
+    Like storks in feathers gray;</p>
+
+<p>  "My seven sons in seven swans,<br>
+    Aboon their heads to flee;<br>
+  And I mysell a gay gos-hawk,<br>
+    A bird o high degree."</p>
+
+<p>  Then sichin said the queen hersell,<br>
+    "That thing's too high for me;"<br>
+  But she applied to an auld woman,<br>
+    Who had mair skill than she.</p>
+
+<p>  Instead o dancers to dance a dance,<br>
+    Or minstrells for to play,<br>
+  Four-and-twenty wall-wight men<br>
+    Turnd birds o feathers gray;</p>
+
+<p>  Her seven sons in seven swans,<br>
+    Aboon their heads to flee;<br>
+  And he himsell a gay gos-hawk,<br>
+    A bird o high degree.</p>
+
+<p>  This flock o birds took flight and flew<br>
+    Beyond the raging sea,<br>
+  And landed near the Earl Mar's castle,<br>
+    Took shelter in every tree.</p>
+
+<p>  They were a flock o pretty birds,<br>
+    Right comely to be seen;<br>
+  The people viewed them wi surprise,<br>
+    As they dancd on the green.</p>
+
+<p>  These birds ascended frae the tree<br>
+    And lighted on the ha,<br>
+  And at the last wi force did flee<br>
+    Amang the nobles a'.</p>
+
+<p>  The storks there seized some o the men,<br>
+    They coud neither fight nor flee;<br>
+  The swans they bound the bride's best man<br>
+    Below a green aik tree.</p>
+
+<p>  They lighted next on maidens fair,<br>
+    Then on the bride's own head,<br>
+  And wi the twinkling o an ee<br>
+    The bride and them were fled.</p>
+
+<p>  There's ancient men at weddings been<br>
+    For sixty years or more,<br>
+  But sic a curious wedding-day<br>
+    They never saw before.</p>
+
+<p>  For naething coud the companie do.<br>
+    Nor naething coud they say<br>
+  But they saw a flock o pretty birds<br>
+    That took their bride away.</p>
+
+<p>  When that Earl Mar he came to know<br>
+    Where his dochter did stay,<br>
+  He signd a bond o unity,<br>
+    And visits now they pay.</p>
+
+<img alt="249.jpg (26K)" src="images/249.jpg" height="394" width="446">
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap32">EDWARD, EDWARD</a></h2>
+<img alt="250.jpg (98K)" src="images/250.jpg" height="521" width="754">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid,<br>
+                                Edward, Edward?<br>
+  Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid?<br>
+            And quhy sae sad gang zee, O?<br>
+  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,<br>
+                                 Mither, mither:<br>
+  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid:<br>
+                   And I had nae mair bot hee, O.</p>
+
+<p>  Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,<br>
+                                  Edward, Edward.<br>
+  Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,<br>
+                    My deir son I tell thee, O.<br>
+  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,<br>
+                                  Mither, mither:<br>
+  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,<br>
+                   That erst was sae fair and free, O.</p>
+
+<p>  Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,<br>
+                                  Edward, Edward;<br>
+  Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,<br>
+                   Sum other dule ze drie, O.<br>
+  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,<br>
+                                  Mither, mither:<br>
+  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,<br>
+                   Alas! and wae is mee, O!</p>
+
+<p>  And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that,<br>
+                               Edward, Edward?<br>
+  And quhatten penance will ze drie for that?<br>
+                 My deir son, now tell mee, O.<br>
+  He set my feit in zonder boat,<br>
+                                Mither, mither:<br>
+  He set my feit in zonder boat,<br>
+                    And He fare ovir the sea, O.</p>
+
+<p>  And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',<br>
+                                 Edward, Edward?<br>
+  And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',<br>
+                  That were sae fair to see, O?<br>
+  He let thame stand til they doun fa',<br>
+                                   Mither, mither:<br>
+  He let thame stand til they doun fa',<br>
+                    For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.</p>
+
+<p>  And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,<br>
+                                      Edward, Edward?<br>
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,<br>
+                      Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O?<br>
+  The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,<br>
+                                     Mither, mither;<br>
+  The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,<br>
+                   For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.</p>
+
+<p>  And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir,<br>
+                                 Edward, Edward?<br>
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir?<br>
+                    My deir son, now tell me, O.<br>
+  The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir,<br>
+                                 Mither, mither:<br>
+  The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir,<br>
+                 Sic counseils ze gave to me, O.</p>
+
+
+<img alt="252.jpg (31K)" src="images/252.jpg" height="314" width="408">
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap33">KING LEIR &amp; HIS THREE DAUGHTERS</a></h2>
+<img alt="253.jpg (112K)" src="images/253.jpg" height="603" width="780">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  King Leir once ruled in this land<br>
+    With princely power and peace;<br>
+  And had all things with hearts content,<br>
+    That might his joys increase.<br>
+  Amongst those things that nature gave,<br>
+    Three daughters fair had he,<br>
+  So princely seeming beautiful,<br>
+    As fairer could not be.</p>
+
+<p>  So on a time it pleas'd the king<br>
+    A question thus to move,<br>
+  Which of his daughters to his grace<br>
+    Could shew the dearest love:<br>
+  For to my age you bring content,<br>
+    Quoth he, then let me hear,<br>
+  Which of you three in plighted troth<br>
+    The kindest will appear.</p>
+
+<p>  To whom the eldest thus began;<br>
+    Dear father, mind, quoth she,<br>
+  Before your face, to do you good,<br>
+    My blood shall render'd be:<br>
+  And for your sake my bleeding heart<br>
+    Shall here be cut in twain,<br>
+  Ere that I see your reverend age<br>
+    The smallest grief sustain.</p>
+
+<p>  And so will I, the second said;<br>
+    Dear father, for your sake,<br>
+  The worst of all extremities<br>
+    I'll gently undertake:<br>
+  And serve your highness night and day<br>
+    With diligence and love;<br>
+  That sweet content and quietness<br>
+    Discomforts may remove.</p>
+
+<p>  In doing so, you glad my soul,<br>
+    The aged king reply'd;<br>
+  But what sayst thou, my youngest girl,<br>
+    How is thy love ally'd?<br>
+  My love (quoth young Cordelia then)<br>
+    Which to your grace I owe,<br>
+  Shall be the duty of a child,<br>
+    And that is all I'll show.</p>
+
+<p>  And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he,<br>
+    Than doth thy duty bind?<br>
+  I well perceive thy love is small,<br>
+    When as no more I find.<br>
+  Henceforth I banish thee my court,<br>
+    Thou art no child of mine;<br>
+  Nor any part of this my realm<br>
+    By favour shall be thine.</p>
+
+<p>  Thy elder sisters loves are more<br>
+    Then well I can demand,<br>
+  To whom I equally bestow<br>
+    My kingdome and my land,<br>
+  My pompal state and all my goods,<br>
+    That lovingly I may<br>
+  With those thy sisters be maintain'd<br>
+    Until my dying day.</p>
+
+<p>  Thus flattering speeches won renown,<br>
+    By these two sisters here;<br>
+  The third had causeless banishment,<br>
+    Yet was her love more dear:<br>
+  For poor Cordelia patiently<br>
+    Went wandring up and down,<br>
+  Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,<br>
+    Through many an English town:</p>
+
+<p>  Untill at last in famous France<br>
+    She gentler fortunes found;<br>
+  Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd<br>
+    The fairest on the ground:<br>
+  Where when the king her virtues heard,<br>
+    And this fair lady seen,<br>
+  With full consent of all his court<br>
+    He made his wife and queen.</p>
+
+<p>  Her father king Leir this while<br>
+    With his two daughters staid:<br>
+  Forgetful of their promis'd loves,<br>
+    Full soon the same decay'd;<br>
+  And living in queen Ragan's court,<br>
+    The eldest of the twain,<br>
+  She took from him his chiefest means,<br>
+    And most of all his train.</p>
+
+<p>  For whereas twenty men were wont<br>
+    To wait with bended knee:<br>
+  She gave allowance but to ten,<br>
+    And after scarce to three;<br>
+  Nay, one she thought too much for him;<br>
+    So took she all away,<br>
+  In hope that in her court, good king,<br>
+    He would no longer stay.</p>
+
+<p>  Am I rewarded thus, quoth he,<br>
+    In giving all I have<br>
+  Unto my children, and to beg<br>
+    For what I lately gave?<br>
+  I'll go unto my Gonorell:<br>
+    My second child, I know,<br>
+  Will be more kind and pitiful,<br>
+    And will relieve my woe.</p>
+
+<p>  Full fast he hies then to her court;<br>
+    Where when she heard his moan<br>
+  Return'd him answer, That she griev'd<br>
+    That all his means were gone:<br>
+  But no way could relieve his wants;<br>
+    Yet if that he would stay<br>
+  Within her kitchen, he should have<br>
+    What scullions gave away.</p>
+
+<p>  When he had heard, with bitter tears,<br>
+    He made his answer then;<br>
+  In what I did let me be made<br>
+    Example to all men.<br>
+  I will return again, quoth he,<br>
+    Unto my Ragan's court;<br>
+  She will not use me thus, I hope,<br>
+    But in a kinder sort.</p>
+
+<p>  Where when he came, she gave command<br>
+    To drive him thence away:<br>
+  When he was well within her court<br>
+    (She said) he would not stay.<br>
+  Then back again to Gonorell<br>
+    The woeful king did hie,<br>
+  That in her kitchen he might have<br>
+    What scullion boy set by.</p>
+
+<p>  But there of that he was deny'd,<br>
+    Which she had promis'd late:<br>
+  For once refusing, he should not<br>
+    Come after to her gate.<br>
+  Thus twixt his daughters, for relief<br>
+    He wandred up and down;<br>
+  Being glad to feed on beggars food,<br>
+    That lately wore a crown.</p>
+
+<p>  And calling to remembrance then<br>
+    His youngest daughters words,<br>
+  That said the duty of a child<br>
+    Was all that love affords:<br>
+  But doubting to repair to her,<br>
+    Whom he had banish'd so,<br>
+  Grew frantick mad; for in his mind<br>
+    He bore the wounds of woe:</p>
+
+<p>  Which made him rend his milk-white locks,<br>
+    And tresses from his head,<br>
+  And all with blood bestain his cheeks,<br>
+    With age and honour spread.<br>
+  To hills and woods and watry founts<br>
+    He made his hourly moan,<br>
+  Till hills and woods and sensless things,<br>
+    Did seem to sigh and groan.</p>
+
+<p>  Even thus possest with discontents,<br>
+    He passed o're to France,<br>
+  In hopes from fair Cordelia there,<br>
+    To find some gentler chance;<br>
+  Most virtuous dame! which when she heard,<br>
+    Of this her father's grief,<br>
+  As duty bound, she quickly sent<br>
+    Him comfort and relief:<br>
+  And by a train of noble peers,<br>
+    In brave and gallant sort,<br>
+  She gave in charge he should be brought<br>
+    To Aganippus' court;<br>
+  Whose royal king, with noble mind<br>
+    So freely gave consent,<br>
+  To muster up his knights at arms,<br>
+    To fame and courage bent.</p>
+
+<p>  And so to England came with speed,<br>
+    To repossesse king Leir<br>
+  And drive his daughters from their thrones<br>
+    By his Cordelia dear.<br>
+  Where she, true-hearted noble queen,<br>
+    Was in the battel slain;<br>
+  Yet he, good king, in his old days,<br>
+    Possest his crown again.</p>
+
+<p>  But when he heard Cordelia's death,<br>
+    Who died indeed for love<br>
+  Of her dear father, in whose cause<br>
+    She did this battle move;<br>
+  He swooning fell upon her breast,<br>
+    From whence he never parted:<br>
+  But on her bosom left his life,<br>
+    That was so truly hearted.</p>
+
+<p>  The lords and nobles when they saw<br>
+    The end of these events,<br>
+  The other sisters unto death<br>
+    They doomed by consents;<br>
+  And being dead, their crowns they left<br>
+    Unto the next of kin:<br>
+  Thus have you seen the fall of pride,<br>
+    And disobedient sin.</p>
+
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap34">HYND HORN</a></h2>
+<img alt="261.jpg (111K)" src="images/261.jpg" height="559" width="821">
+<br><br>
+<a name="hynd"></a>
+<img alt="hynd.jpg (159K)" src="images/hynd.jpg" height="1007" width="750">
+
+
+<p>  "Hynde Horn's bound, love, and Hynde Horn's free;<br>
+  Whare was ye born? or frae what cuntrie?"</p>
+
+<p>  "In gude greenwud whare I was born,<br>
+  And all my friends left me forlorn.</p>
+
+<p>  "I gave my love a gay gowd wand,<br>
+  That was to rule oure all Scotland.</p>
+
+<p>  "My love gave me a silver ring,<br>
+  That was to rule abune aw thing.</p>
+
+<p>  "Whan that ring keeps new in hue,<br>
+  Ye may ken that your love loves you.</p>
+
+<p>  "Whan that ring turns pale and wan,<br>
+  Ye may ken that your love loves anither man."</p>
+
+<p>  He hoisted up his sails, and away sailed he<br>
+  Till he cam to a foreign cuntree.</p>
+
+<p>  Whan he lookit to his ring, it was turnd pale and wan;<br>
+  Says, I wish I war at hame again.</p>
+
+<p>  He hoisted up his sails, and hame sailed he<br>
+  Until he cam till his ain cuntree.</p>
+
+<p>  The first ane that he met with,<br>
+  It was with a puir auld beggar-man.</p>
+
+<p>  "What news? what news, my puir auld man?<br>
+  What news hae ye got to tell to me?"</p>
+
+<p>  "Na news, na news," the puir man did say,<br>
+  "But this is our queen's wedding-day."</p>
+
+<p>  "Ye'll lend me your begging-weed,<br>
+  And I'll lend you my riding-steed."<br>
+    "My begging-weed is na for thee,<br>
+  Your riding-steed is na for me."</p>
+
+<p>  He has changed wi the puir auld beggar-man.</p>
+
+<p>  "What is the way that ye use to gae?<br>
+  And what are the words that ye beg wi?"</p>
+
+<p>  "Whan ye come to yon high hill,<br>
+  Ye'll draw your bent bow nigh until.</p>
+
+<p>  "Whan ye come to yon town-end,<br>
+  Ye'll lat your bent bow low fall doun.</p>
+
+<p>  "Ye'll seek meat for St Peter, ask for St Paul,<br>
+  And seek for the sake of your Hynde Horn all.</p>
+
+<p>  "But tak ye frae nane o them aw<br>
+  Till ye get frae the bonnie bride hersel O."</p>
+
+<p>  Whan he cam to yon high hill,<br>
+  He drew his bent bow nigh until.</p>
+
+<p>  And when he cam to yon toun-end,<br>
+  He loot his bent bow low fall doun.</p>
+
+<p>  He sought for St Peter, he askd for St Paul,<br>
+  And he sought for the sake of his Hynde Horn all.</p>
+
+<p>  But he took na frae ane o them aw<br>
+  Till he got frae the bonnie bride hersel O.</p>
+
+<p>  The bride cam tripping doun the stair,<br>
+  Wi the scales o red gowd on her hair.</p>
+
+<p>  Wi a glass o red wine in her hand,<br>
+  To gie to the puir beggar-man.</p>
+
+<p>  Out he drank his glass o wine,<br>
+  Into it he dropt the ring.</p>
+
+<p>  "Got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land,<br>
+  Or got ye't aff a drownd man's hand?"</p>
+
+<p>  "I got na't by sea, I got na't by land,<br>
+  Nor gat I it aff a drownd man's hand;</p>
+
+<p>  "But I got it at my wooing,<br>
+  And I'll gie it to your wedding."</p>
+
+<p>  "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my head,<br>
+  I'll follow you, and beg my bread.</p>
+
+<p>  "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my hair,<br>
+  I'll follow you for evermair."</p>
+
+<p>  She has tane the scales o gowd frae her head,<br>
+  She's followed him, to beg her bread.</p>
+
+<p>  She has tane the scales o gowd frae her hair,<br>
+  And she has followd him evermair.</p>
+
+<p>  Atween the kitchen and the ha,<br>
+  There he loot his cloutie cloak fa.</p>
+
+<p>  The red gowd shined oure them aw,<br>
+  And the bride frae the bridegroom was stown awa.</p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap35">JOHN BROWN'S BODY</a></h2>
+<img alt="265.jpg (62K)" src="images/265.jpg" height="459" width="826">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,<br>
+  Because he fought for Freedom and the stricken Negro slave;<br>
+  Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,<br>
+  But his soul is marching on.</p>
+
+<p>                           <i>Chorus</i></p>
+
+<p>                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!<br>
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!<br>
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!<br>
+                       His soul is marching on.</p>
+
+<p>  He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true;<br>
+  His little patriot band into a noble army grew;<br>
+  He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true,<br>
+  And his soul is marching on.</p>
+
+<p>  'Twas not till John Brown lost his life, arose in all its
+might,<br>
+  The army of the Union men that won the fearful fight;<br>
+  But tho' the glad event, oh! it never met his sight,<br>
+  Still his soul is marching on.</p>
+
+<p>  John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above,<br>
+  Where live the happy spirits in their harmony and love,<br>
+  John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above,<br>
+  And his soul is marching on.</p>
+
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2> <a name="chap36">TIPPERARY</a></h2>
+<img alt="267.jpg (73K)" src="images/267.jpg" height="413" width="780">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day,<br>
+  As the streets are paved with gold, sure everyone was gay;<br>
+  Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square,<br>
+  Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:--</p>
+
+<p><i>Chorus</i></p>
+
+<p>  "It's a long way to Tipperary,<br>
+  It's a long way to go;<br>
+  It's a long way to Tipperary,<br>
+  To the sweetest girl I know!<br>
+  Good-bye Piccadilly,<br>
+  Farewell, Leicester Square,<br>
+  It's a long, long way to Tipperary,<br>
+  But my heart's right there!"</p>
+
+<p>  Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O',<br>
+  Saying, "Should you not receive it, write and let me know!<br>
+  "If I make mistakes in 'spelling,' Molly dear,' said he,<br>
+  "Remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on
+me."</p>
+
+<p>  Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy O',<br>
+  Saying, "Mike Maloney wants to marry me, and so<br>
+  Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you'll be to blame,<br>
+  For love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the
+same!"</p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap37">THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON</a></h2>
+<img alt="269.jpg (103K)" src="images/269.jpg" height="557" width="779">
+<br><br>
+<a name="islington"></a>
+<img alt="islington.jpg (150K)" src="images/islington.jpg" height="1013" width="750">
+
+<p>  There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,<br>
+    And he was a squires son:<br>
+  He loved the bayliffes daughter deare,<br>
+    That lived in Islington.</p>
+
+<p>  Yet she was coye, and would not believe<br>
+    That he did love her soe,<br>
+  Noe nor at any time would she<br>
+    Any countenance to him showe.</p>
+
+<p>  But when his friendes did understand<br>
+    His fond and foolish minde,<br>
+  They sent him up to faire London<br>
+    An apprentice for to binde.</p>
+
+<p>  And when he had been seven long yeares,<br>
+    And never his love could see:<br>
+  Many a teare have I shed for her sake,<br>
+    When she little thought of mee.</p>
+
+<p>  Then all the maids of Islington<br>
+    Went forth to sport and playe,<br>
+  All but the bayliffes daughter deare;<br>
+    She secretly stole awaye.</p>
+
+<p>  She pulled off her gowne of greene,<br>
+    And put on ragged attire,<br>
+  And to faire London she would goe<br>
+    Her true love to enquire.</p>
+
+<p>  And as she went along the high road,<br>
+    The weather being hot and drye,<br>
+  She sat her downe upon a green bank,<br>
+    And her true love came riding bye.</p>
+
+<p>  She started up, with a colour soe redd,<br>
+    Catching hold of his bridle-reine;<br>
+  One penny, one penny, kind Sir, she sayd,<br>
+    Will ease me of much paine.</p>
+
+<p>  Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,<br>
+    Praye tell me where you were borne:<br>
+  At Islington, kind Sir, sayd shee,<br>
+    Where I have had many a scorne.</p>
+
+<p>  I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,<br>
+    O tell me, whether you knowe<br>
+  The bayliffes daughter of Islington:<br>
+    She is dead, Sir, long agoe.</p>
+
+<p>  If she be dead, then take my horse,<br>
+    My saddle and bridle also;<br>
+  For I will into some far countrye,<br>
+    Where noe man shall me knowe.</p>
+
+<p>  O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe,<br>
+    She standeth by thy side;<br>
+  She is here alive, she is not dead,<br>
+    And readye to be thy bride.</p>
+
+<p>  O farewell griefe, and welcome joye,<br>
+    Ten thousand times therefore;<br>
+  For nowe I have founde mine owne true love,<br>
+    Whom I thought I should never see more.</p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap38">THE THREE RAVENS</a></h2>
+<img alt="272.jpg (71K)" src="images/272.jpg" height="430" width="786">
+<br><br>
+
+<a name="ravens"></a>
+<img alt="ravens.jpg (150K)" src="images/ravens.jpg" height="992" width="750">
+
+<p>  There were three rauens sat on a tree,<br>
+    Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe<br>
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,<br>
+    With a downe<br>
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,<br>
+  They were as blacke as they might be<br>
+    With a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe</p>
+
+<p>  The one of them said to his mate,<br>
+  "Where shall we our breakefast take?"</p>
+
+<p>  "Downe in yonder greene field,<br>
+  There lies a knight slain vnder his shield.</p>
+
+<p>  "His hounds they lie downe at his feete,<br>
+  So well they can their master keepe.</p>
+
+<p>  "His haukes they flie so eagerly,<br>
+  There's no fowle dare him come nie."</p>
+
+<p>  Downe there comes a fallow doe,<br>
+  As great with yong as she might goe.</p>
+
+<p>  She lift up his bloudy hed,<br>
+  And kist his wounds that were so red.</p>
+
+<p>  She got him up upon her backe,<br>
+  And carried him to earthen lake.</p>
+
+<p>  She buried him before the prime,<br>
+  She was dead herselfe ere even-song time.</p>
+
+<p>  God send every gentleman,<br>
+  Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman.</p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap39">THE GABERLUNZIE MAN</a></h2>
+<img alt="274.jpg (114K)" src="images/274.jpg" height="544" width="778">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  The pauky auld Carle come ovir the lee<br>
+  Wi' mony good-eens and days to mee,<br>
+  Saying, Good wife, for zour courtesie,<br>
+    Will ze lodge a silly poor man?<br>
+  The night was cauld, the carle was wat,<br>
+  And down azont the ingle he sat;<br>
+  My dochtors shoulders he gan to clap,<br>
+    And cadgily ranted and sang.</p>
+
+<p>  O wow! quo he, were I as free,<br>
+  As first when I saw this countrie,<br>
+  How blyth and merry wad I bee!<br>
+    And I wad nevir think lang.<br>
+  He grew canty, and she grew fain;<br>
+  But little did her auld minny ken<br>
+  What thir slee twa togither were say'n,<br>
+    When wooing they were sa thrang.</p>
+
+<p>  And O! quo he, ann ze were as black,<br>
+  As evir the crown of your dadyes hat,<br>
+  Tis I wad lay thee by my backe,<br>
+    And awa wi' me thou sould gang.<br>
+  And O! quoth she, ann I were as white,<br>
+  As evir the snaw lay on the dike,<br>
+  Ild dead me braw, and lady-like,<br>
+    And awa with thee Ild gang.</p>
+
+<p>  Between them twa was made a plot;<br>
+  They raise a wee before the cock,<br>
+  And wyliely they shot the lock,<br>
+    And fast to the bent are they gane.<br>
+  Up the morn the auld wife raise,<br>
+  And at her leisure put on her claiths,<br>
+  Syne to the servants bed she gaes<br>
+    To speir for the silly poor man.</p>
+
+<p>  She gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay,<br>
+  The strae was cauld, he was away,<br>
+  She clapt her hands, cryd, Dulefu' day!<br>
+    For some of our geir will be gane.<br>
+  Some ran to coffer, and some to kist,<br>
+  But nought was stown that could be mist.<br>
+  She dancid her lane, cryd, Praise be blest,<br>
+    I have lodgd a leal poor man.</p>
+
+<p>  Since naithings awa, as we can learn,<br>
+  The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn,<br>
+  Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn,<br>
+    And bid her come quickly ben.<br>
+  The servant gaed where the dochter lay,<br>
+  The sheets was cauld, she was away,<br>
+  And fast to her goodwife can say,<br>
+    Shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man.</p>
+
+<p>  O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin,<br>
+  And haste ze, find these traitors agen;<br>
+  For shees be burnt, and hees be slein,<br>
+    The wearyfou gaberlunzie-man.<br>
+  Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit<br>
+  The wife was wood, and out o' her wit;<br>
+  She could na gang, nor yet could sit,<br>
+    But ay did curse and did ban.</p>
+
+<p>  Mean time far hind out owre the lee,<br>
+  For snug in a glen, where nane could see,<br>
+  The twa, with kindlie sport and glee<br>
+    Cut frae a new cheese a whang.<br>
+  The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith,<br>
+  To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith.<br>
+  Quo she, to leave thee, I will laith,<br>
+    My winsome gaberlunzie-man.</p>
+
+<p>  O kend my minny I were wi' zou,<br>
+  Illfardly wad she crook her mou,<br>
+  Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow,<br>
+    Aftir the gaberlunzie-mon.<br>
+  My dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge;<br>
+  And hae na learnt the beggars tonge,<br>
+  To follow me frae toun to toun,<br>
+    And carrie the gaberlunzie on.</p>
+
+<p>  Wi' kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread,<br>
+  And spindles and whorles for them wha need,<br>
+  Whilk is a gentil trade indeed<br>
+    The gaberlunzie to carrie--o.<br>
+  Ill bow my leg and crook my knee,<br>
+  And draw a black clout owre my ee,<br>
+  A criple or blind they will cau me:<br>
+    While we sail sing and be merrie--o.</p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap40">THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL</a></h2>
+<img alt="278.jpg (121K)" src="images/278.jpg" height="552" width="772">
+<br><br>
+<a name="usher"></a>
+<img alt="usher.jpg (140K)" src="images/usher.jpg" height="1028" width="750">
+
+<p>  There lived a wife at Usher's Well,<br>
+    And a wealthy wife was she;<br>
+  She had three stout and stalwart sons,<br>
+    And sent them oer the sea.</p>
+
+<p>  They hadna been a week from her,<br>
+    A week but barely ane,<br>
+  Whan word came to the carline wife<br>
+    That her three sons were gane.</p>
+
+<p>  They hadna been a week from her,<br>
+    A week but barely three,<br>
+  Whan word came to the carlin wife<br>
+    That her sons she'd never see.</p>
+
+<p>  "I wish the wind may never cease,<br>
+    Nor fashes in the flood,<br>
+  Till my three sons come hame to me,<br>
+    In earthly flesh and blood."</p>
+
+<p>  It fell about the Martinmass,<br>
+    When nights are lang and mirk,<br>
+  The carlin wife's three sons came hame,<br>
+    And their hats were o the birk.</p>
+
+<p>  It neither grew in syke nor ditch,<br>
+    Nor yet in ony sheugh;<br>
+  But at the gates o Paradise,<br>
+     That birk grew fair eneugh.</p>
+
+<p>       *       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>  "Blow up the fire, my maidens,<br>
+    Bring water from the well;<br>
+  For a' my house shall feast this night,<br>
+    Since my three sons are well."</p>
+
+<p>  And she has made to them a bed,<br>
+    She's made it large and wide,<br>
+  And she's taen her mantle her about,<br>
+    Sat down at the bed-side.</p>
+
+<p>       *       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>  Up then crew the red, red cock,<br>
+    And up and crew the gray;<br>
+  The eldest to the youngest said,<br>
+  'Tis time we were away.</p>
+
+<p>  The cock he hadna crawd but once,<br>
+    And clappd his wings at a',<br>
+  When the youngest to the eldest said,<br>
+    Brother, we must awa.</p>
+
+<p>  "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,<br>
+    The channerin worm doth chide;<br>
+  Gin we be mist out o our place,<br>
+    A sair pain we maun bide.</p>
+
+<p>  "Fare ye weel, my mother dear!<br>
+    Fareweel to barn and byre!<br>
+  And fare ye weel, the bonny lass<br>
+    That kindles my mother's fire!"</p>
+
+<img alt="280.jpg (10K)" src="images/280.jpg" height="392" width="285">
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap41">THE LYE</a></h2>
+<img alt="281.jpg (96K)" src="images/281.jpg" height="419" width="795">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>  Goe, soule, the bodies guest,<br>
+    Upon a thanklesse arrant;<br>
+  Feare not to touche the best,<br>
+    The truth shall be thy warrant:<br>
+      Goe, since I needs must dye,<br>
+      And give the world the lye.</p>
+
+<p>  Goe tell the court, it glowes<br>
+    And shines like rotten wood;<br>
+  Goe tell the church it showes<br>
+    What's good, and doth no good:<br>
+      If church and court reply,<br>
+      Then give them both the lye.</p>
+
+<p>  Tell potentates they live<br>
+    Acting by others actions;<br>
+  Not lov'd unlesse they give,<br>
+    Not strong but by their factions;<br>
+      If potentates reply,<br>
+      Give potentates the lye.</p>
+
+<p>  Tell men of high condition,<br>
+    That rule affairs of state,<br>
+  Their purpose is ambition,<br>
+    Their practise onely hate;<br>
+      And if they once reply,<br>
+      Then give them all the lye.</p>
+
+<p>  Tell them that brave it most,<br>
+    They beg for more by spending,<br>
+  Who in their greatest cost<br>
+    Seek nothing but commending;<br>
+      And if they make reply,<br>
+      Spare not to give the lye.</p>
+
+<p>  Tell zeale, it lacks devotion;<br>
+    Tell love, it is but lust;<br>
+  Tell time, it is but motion;<br>
+    Tell flesh, it is but dust;<br>
+      And wish them not reply,<br>
+      For thou must give the lye.</p>
+
+<p>  Tell age, it daily wasteth;<br>
+    Tell honour, how it alters:<br>
+  Tell beauty, how she blasteth;<br>
+    Tell favour, how she falters;<br>
+      And as they shall reply,<br>
+      Give each of them the lye.</p>
+
+<p>  Tell wit, how much it wrangles<br>
+    In tickle points of nicenesse;<br>
+  Tell wisedome, she entangles<br>
+    Herselfe in over-wisenesse;<br>
+      And if they do reply,<br>
+      Straight give them both the lye.</p>
+
+<p>  Tell physicke of her boldnesse;<br>
+    Tell skill, it is pretension;<br>
+  Tell charity of coldness;<br>
+    Tell law, it is contention;<br>
+      And as they yield reply,<br>
+      So give them still the lye.</p>
+
+<p>  Tell fortune of her blindnesse;<br>
+    Tell nature of decay;<br>
+  Tell friendship of unkindnesse;<br>
+    Tell justice of delay:<br>
+      And if they dare reply,<br>
+      Then give them all the lye.</p>
+
+<p>  Tell arts, they have no soundnesse,<br>
+    But vary by esteeming;<br>
+  Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse;<br>
+    And stand too much on seeming:<br>
+      If arts and schooles reply.<br>
+      Give arts and schooles the lye.</p>
+
+<p>  Tell faith, it's fled the citie;<br>
+    Tell how the countrey erreth;<br>
+  Tell, manhood shakes off pitie;<br>
+    Tell, vertue least preferreth:<br>
+      And, if they doe reply,<br>
+      Spare not to give the lye.</p>
+
+<p>  So, when thou hast, as I<br>
+    Commanded thee, done blabbing,<br>
+  Although to give the lye<br>
+    Deserves no less than stabbing,<br>
+      Yet stab at thee who will,<br>
+      No stab the soule can kill.</p>
+
+
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+<h2><a name="chap42">THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL</a></h2>
+<img alt="285.jpg (52K)" src="images/285.jpg" height="367" width="783">
+<br><br>
+
+<p>I.</p>
+
+<p>  He did not wear his scarlet coat,<br>
+    For blood and wine are red,<br>
+  And blood and wine were on his hands<br>
+    When they found him with the dead,<br>
+  The poor dead woman whom he loved,<br>
+    And murdered in her bed.</p>
+
+<p>  He walked amongst the Trial Men<br>
+    In a suit of shabby grey;<br>
+  A cricket cap was on his head,<br>
+    And his step seemed light and gay;<br>
+  But I never saw a man who looked<br>
+    So wistfully at the day.</p>
+
+<p>  I never saw a man who looked<br>
+    With such a wistful eye<br>
+  Upon that little tent of blue<br>
+    Which prisoners call the sky,<br>
+  And at every drifting cloud that went<br>
+    With sails of silver by.</p>
+
+<p>  I walked, with other souls in pain,<br>
+    Within another ring,<br>
+  And was wondering if the man had done<br>
+    A great or little thing,<br>
+  When a voice behind me whispered low,<br>
+    <i>"That fellow's got to swing."</i></p>
+
+<p>  Dear Christ! the very prison walls<br>
+    Suddenly seemed to reel,<br>
+  And the sky above my head became<br>
+    Like a casque of scorching steel;<br>
+  And, though I was a soul in pain,<br>
+    My pain I could not feel.</p>
+
+<p>  I only knew what hunted thought<br>
+    Quickened his step, and why<br>
+  He looked upon the garish day<br>
+    With such a wistful eye;<br>
+  The man had killed the thing he loved,<br>
+    And so he had to die.</p>
+
+<p>         *       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>  Yet each man kills the thing he loves,<br>
+    By each let this be heard,<br>
+  Some do it with a bitter look,<br>
+    Some with a flattering word.<br>
+  The coward does it with a kiss,<br>
+    The brave man with a sword!</p>
+
+<p>  Some kill their love when they are young,<br>
+    And some when they are old;<br>
+  Some strangle with the hands of Lust,<br>
+    Some with the hands of Gold:<br>
+  The kindest use a knife, because<br>
+    The dead so soon grow cold.</p>
+
+<p>  Some love too little, some too long,<br>
+    Some sell, and others buy;<br>
+  Some do the deed with many tears,<br>
+    And some without a sigh:<br>
+  For each man kills the thing he loves,<br>
+    Yet each man does not die.</p>
+
+<p>  He does not die a death of shame<br>
+    On a day of dark disgrace,<br>
+  Nor have a noose about his neck,<br>
+    Nor a cloth upon his face,<br>
+  Nor drop feet foremost through the floor<br>
+    Into an empty space.</p>
+
+<p>  He does not sit with silent men<br>
+    Who watch him night and day;<br>
+  Who watch him when he tries to weep,<br>
+    And when he tries to pray;<br>
+  Who watch him lest himself should rob<br>
+    The prison of its prey.</p>
+
+<p>  He does not wake at dawn to see<br>
+    Dread figures throng his room,<br>
+  The shivering Chaplain robed in white,<br>
+    The Sheriff stern with gloom,<br>
+  And the Governor all in shiny black,<br>
+    With the yellow face of Doom.</p>
+
+<p>  He does not rise in piteous haste<br>
+    To put on convict-clothes,<br>
+  While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes<br>
+    Each new and nerve-twitched pose,<br>
+  Fingering a watch whose little ticks<br>
+    Are like horrible hammer-blows.</p>
+
+<p>  He does not feel that sickening thirst<br>
+    That sands one's throat, before<br>
+  The hangman with his gardener's gloves<br>
+    Comes through the padded door,<br>
+  And binds one with three leathern thongs,<br>
+    That the throat may thirst no more.</p>
+
+<p>  He does not bend his head to hear<br>
+    The Burial Office read,<br>
+  Nor, while the anguish of his soul<br>
+    Tells him he is not dead,<br>
+  Cross his own coffin, as he moves<br>
+    Into the hideous shed.</p>
+
+<p>  He does not stare upon the air<br>
+    Through a little roof of glass:<br>
+  He does not pray with lips of clay<br>
+    For his agony to pass;<br>
+  Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek<br>
+    The kiss of Caiaphas.</p>
+
+<p>II</p>
+
+<p>  Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard<br>
+    In the suit of shabby grey:<br>
+  His cricket cap was on his head,<br>
+    And his step seemed light and gay,<br>
+  But I never saw a man who looked<br>
+    So wistfully at the day.</p>
+
+<p>  I never saw a man who looked<br>
+    With such a wistful eye<br>
+  Upon that little tent of blue<br>
+    Which prisoners call the sky,<br>
+  And at every wandering cloud that trailed<br>
+    Its ravelled fleeces by.</p>
+
+<p>  He did not wring his hands, as do<br>
+    Those witless men who dare<br>
+  To try to rear the changeling<br>
+    In the cave of black Despair:<br>
+  He only looked upon the sun,<br>
+    And drank the morning air.</p>
+
+<p>  He did not wring his hands nor weep,<br>
+    Nor did he peek or pine,<br>
+  But he drank the air as though it held<br>
+    Some healthful anodyne;<br>
+  With open mouth he drank the sun<br>
+    As though it had been wine!</p>
+
+<p>  And I and all the souls in pain,<br>
+    Who tramped the other ring,<br>
+  Forgot if we ourselves had done<br>
+    A great or little thing,<br>
+  And watched with gaze of dull amaze<br>
+    The man who had to swing.</p>
+
+<p>  For strange it was to see him pass<br>
+    With a step so light and gay,<br>
+  And strange it was to see him look<br>
+    So wistfully at the day,<br>
+  And strange it was to think that he<br>
+    Had such a debt to pay.</p>
+
+<p>         *       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>  For oak and elm have pleasant leaves<br>
+    That in the spring-time shoot:<br>
+  But grim to see is the gallows-tree,<br>
+    With its adder-bitten root,<br>
+  And, green or dry, a man must die<br>
+    Before it bears its fruit!</p>
+
+<p>  The loftiest place is that seat of grace<br>
+    For which all worldlings try:<br>
+  But who would stand in hempen band<br>
+    Upon a scaffold high,<br>
+  And through a murderer's collar take<br>
+    His last look at the sky?</p>
+
+<p>  It is sweet to dance to violins<br>
+    When Love and Life are fair:<br>
+  To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes<br>
+    Is delicate and rare:<br>
+  But it is not sweet with nimble feet<br>
+    To dance upon the air!</p>
+
+<p>  So with curious eyes and sick surmise<br>
+    We watched him day by day,<br>
+  And wondered if each one of us<br>
+    Would end the self-same way,<br>
+  For none can tell to what red Hell<br>
+    His sightless soul may stray.</p>
+
+<p>  At last the dead man walked no more<br>
+    Amongst the Trial Men,<br>
+  And I knew that he was standing up<br>
+    In the black dock's dreadful pen,<br>
+  And that never would I see his face<br>
+    For weal or woe again.</p>
+
+<p>  Like two doomed ships that pass in storm<br>
+    We had crossed each other's way:<br>
+  But we made no sign, we said no word,<br>
+    We had no word to say;<br>
+  For we did not meet in the holy night,<br>
+    But in the shameful day.</p>
+
+<p>  A prison wall was round us both,<br>
+    Two outcast men we were:<br>
+  The world had thrust us from its heart,<br>
+    And God from out His care:<br>
+  And the iron gin that waits for Sin<br>
+    Had caught us in its snare.</p>
+
+<p>III.</p>
+
+<p>  In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,<br>
+    And the dripping wall is high,<br>
+  So it was there he took the air<br>
+    Beneath the leaden sky,<br>
+  And by each side a Warder walked,<br>
+    For fear the man might die.</p>
+
+<p>  Or else he sat with those who watched<br>
+    His anguish night and day;<br>
+  Who watched him when he rose to weep,<br>
+    And when he crouched to pray;<br>
+  Who watched him lest himself should rob<br>
+    Their scaffold of its prey.</p>
+
+<p>  The Governor was strong upon<br>
+    The Regulations Act:<br>
+  The Doctor said that Death was but<br>
+    A scientific fact:<br>
+  And twice a day the Chaplain called,<br>
+    And left a little tract.</p>
+
+<p>  And twice a day he smoked his pipe,<br>
+    And drank his quart of beer:<br>
+  His soul was resolute, and held<br>
+    No hiding-place for fear;<br>
+  He often said that he was glad<br>
+    The hangman's day was near.</p>
+
+<p>  But why he said so strange a thing<br>
+    No warder dared to ask:<br>
+  For he to whom a watcher's doom<br>
+    Is given as his task,<br>
+  Must set a lock upon his lips<br>
+    And make his face a mask.</p>
+
+<p>  Or else he might be moved, and try<br>
+    To comfort or console:<br>
+  And what should Human Pity do<br>
+    Pent up in Murderer's Hole?<br>
+  What word of grace in such a place<br>
+    Could help a brother's soul?</p>
+
+<p>  With slouch and swing around the ring<br>
+    We trod the Fools' Parade!<br>
+  We did not care: we knew we were<br>
+    The Devil's Own Brigade:<br>
+  And shaven head and feet of lead<br>
+    Make a merry masquerade.</p>
+
+<p>  We tore the tarry rope to shreds<br>
+    With blunt and bleeding nails;<br>
+  We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,<br>
+    And cleaned the shining rails:<br>
+  And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,<br>
+    And clattered with the pails.</p>
+
+<p>  We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,<br>
+    We turned the dusty drill:<br>
+  We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,<br>
+    And sweated on the mill:<br>
+  But in the heart of every man<br>
+    Terror was lying still.</p>
+
+<p>  So still it lay that every day<br>
+    Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:<br>
+  And we forgot the bitter lot<br>
+    That waits for fool and knave,<br>
+  Till once, as we tramped in from work,<br>
+    We passed an open grave.</p>
+
+<p>  With yawning mouth the yellow hole<br>
+    Gaped for a living thing;<br>
+  The very mud cried out for blood<br>
+    To the thirsty asphalte ring:<br>
+  And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair<br>
+    Some prisoner had to swing.</p>
+
+<p>  Right in we went, with soul intent<br>
+    On Death and Dread and Doom:<br>
+  The hangman, with his little bag,<br>
+    Went shuffling through the gloom:<br>
+  And I trembled as I groped my way<br>
+    Into my numbered tomb.</p>
+
+<p>         *       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>  That night the empty corridors<br>
+    Were full of forms of Fear,<br>
+  And up and down the iron town<br>
+    Stole feet we could not hear,<br>
+  And through the bars that hide the stars<br>
+    White faces seemed to peer.</p>
+
+<p>  He lay as one who lies and dreams<br>
+    In a pleasant meadow-land,<br>
+  The watchers watched him as he slept,<br>
+    And could not understand<br>
+  How one could sleep so sweet a sleep<br>
+    With a hangman close at hand.</p>
+
+<p>  But there is no sleep when men must weep<br>
+    Who never yet have wept:<br>
+  So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave--<br>
+    That endless vigil kept,<br>
+  And through each brain on hands of pain<br>
+    Another's terror crept.</p>
+
+<p>  Alas! it is a fearful thing<br>
+    To feel another's guilt!<br>
+  For, right, within, the Sword of Sin<br>
+    Pierced to its poisoned hilt,<br>
+  And as molten lead were the tears we shed<br>
+    For the blood we had not spilt.</p>
+
+<p>  The warders with their shoes of felt<br>
+    Crept by each padlocked door,<br>
+  And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,<br>
+    Grey figures on the floor,<br>
+  And wondered why men knelt to pray<br>
+    Who never prayed before.</p>
+
+<p>  All through the night we knelt and prayed,<br>
+    Mad mourners of a corse!<br>
+  The troubled plumes of midnight shook<br>
+    The plumes upon a hearse:<br>
+  And bitter wine upon a sponge<br>
+    Was the savour of Remorse.</p>
+
+<p>       *       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>  The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,<br>
+    But never came the day:<br>
+  And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,<br>
+    In the corners where we lay:<br>
+  And each evil sprite that walks by night<br>
+    Before us seemed to play.</p>
+
+<p>  They glided past, they glided fast,<br>
+    Like travellers through a mist:<br>
+  They mocked the moon in a rigadoon<br>
+    Of delicate turn and twist,<br>
+  And with formal pace and loathsome grace<br>
+    The phantoms kept their tryst.</p>
+
+<p>  With mop and mow, we saw them go,<br>
+    Slim shadows hand in hand:<br>
+  About, about, in ghostly rout<br>
+    They trod a saraband:<br>
+  And the damned grotesques made arabesques,<br>
+    Like the wind upon the sand!</p>
+
+<p>  With the pirouettes of marionettes,<br>
+    They tripped on pointed tread:<br>
+  But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,<br>
+    As their grisly masque they led,<br>
+  And loud they sang, and long they sang,<br>
+    For they sang to wake the dead.</p>
+
+<p>  <i>"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide,<br>
+    But fettered limbs go lame!<br>
+  And once, or twice, to throw the dice<br>
+    Is a gentlemanly game,<br>
+  But he does not win who plays with Sin<br>
+    In the secret House of Shame."</i></p>
+
+<p>  No things of air these antics were,<br>
+    That frolicked with such glee:<br>
+  To men whose lives were held in gyves,<br>
+    And whose feet might not go free,<br>
+  Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,<br>
+    Most terrible to see.</p>
+
+<p>  Around, around, they waltzed and wound;<br>
+    Some wheeled in smirking pairs;<br>
+  With the mincing step of a demirep<br>
+    Some sidled up the stairs:<br>
+  And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,<br>
+    Each helped us at our prayers.</p>
+
+<p>  The morning wind began to moan,<br>
+    But still the night went on:<br>
+  Through its giant loom the web of gloom<br>
+    Crept till each thread was spun:<br>
+  And, as we prayed, we grew afraid<br>
+    Of the Justice of the Sun.</p>
+
+<p>  The moaning wind went wandering round<br>
+    The weeping prison-wall:<br>
+  Till like a wheel of turning steel<br>
+    We felt the minutes crawl:<br>
+  O moaning wind! what had we done<br>
+    To have such a seneschal?</p>
+
+<p>  At last I saw the shadowed bars,<br>
+    Like a lattice wrought in lead,<br>
+  Move right across the whitewashed wall<br>
+    That faced my three-plank bed,<br>
+  And I knew that somewhere in the world<br>
+    God's dreadful dawn was red.</p>
+
+<p>  At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,<br>
+    At seven all was still,<br>
+  But the sough and swing of a mighty wing<br>
+    The prison seemed to fill,<br>
+  For the Lord of Death with icy breath<br>
+    Had entered in to kill.</p>
+
+<p>  He did not pass in purple pomp,<br>
+    Nor ride a moon-white steed.<br>
+  Three yards of cord and a sliding board<br>
+    Are all the gallows' need:<br>
+  So with rope of shame the Herald came<br>
+    To do the secret deed.</p>
+
+<p>  We were as men who through a fen<br>
+    Of filthy darkness grope:<br>
+  We did not dare to breathe a prayer,<br>
+    Or to give our anguish scope:<br>
+  Something was dead in each of us,<br>
+    And what was dead was Hope.</p>
+
+<p>  For Man's grim Justice goes its way,<br>
+    And will not swerve aside:<br>
+  It slays the weak, it slays the strong,<br>
+    It has a deadly stride:<br>
+  With iron heel it slays the strong,<br>
+    The monstrous parricide!</p>
+
+<p>  We waited for the stroke of eight:<br>
+    Each tongue was thick with thirst:<br>
+  For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate<br>
+    That makes a man accursed,<br>
+  And Fate will use a running noose<br>
+    For the best man and the worst.</p>
+
+<p>  We had no other thing to do,<br>
+    Save to wait for the sign to come:<br>
+  So, like things of stone in a valley lone,<br>
+    Quiet we sat and dumb:<br>
+  But each man's heart beat thick and quick,<br>
+    Like a madman on a drum!</p>
+
+<p>  With sudden shock the prison-clock<br>
+    Smote on the shivering air,<br>
+  And from all the gaol rose up a wail<br>
+    Of impotent despair,<br>
+  Like the sound that frightened marches hear<br>
+    From some leper in his lair.</p>
+
+<p>  And as one sees most fearful things<br>
+    In the crystal of a dream,<br>
+  We saw the greasy hempen rope<br>
+    Hooked to the blackened beam,<br>
+  And heard the prayer the hangman's snare<br>
+    Strangled into a scream.</p>
+
+<p>  And all the woe that moved him so<br>
+    That he gave that bitter cry,<br>
+  And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,<br>
+    None knew so well as I:<br>
+  For he who lives more lives than one<br>
+    More deaths than one must die.</p>
+
+<p>IV</p>
+
+<p>  There is no chapel on the day<br>
+    On which they hang a man:<br>
+  The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,<br>
+    Or his face is far too wan,<br>
+  Or there is that written in his eyes<br>
+    Which none should look upon.</p>
+
+<p>  So they kept us close till nigh on noon,<br>
+    And then they rang the bell,<br>
+  And the warders with their jingling keys<br>
+    Opened each listening cell,<br>
+  And down the iron stair we tramped,<br>
+    Each from his separate Hell.</p>
+
+<p>  Out into God's sweet air we went,<br>
+    But not in wonted way,<br>
+  For this man's face was white with fear,<br>
+    And that man's face was grey,<br>
+  And I never saw sad men who looked<br>
+    So wistfully at the day.</p>
+
+<p>  I never saw sad men who looked<br>
+    With such a wistful eye<br>
+  Upon that little tent of blue<br>
+    We prisoners called the sky,<br>
+  And at every happy cloud that passed<br>
+    In such strange freedom by.</p>
+
+<p>  But there were those amongst us all<br>
+    Who walked with downcast head,<br>
+  And knew that, had each got his due,<br>
+    They should have died instead:<br>
+  He had but killed a thing that lived,<br>
+    Whilst they had killed the dead.</p>
+
+<p>  For he who sins a second time<br>
+    Wakes a dead soul to pain,<br>
+  And draws it from its spotted shroud,<br>
+    And makes it bleed again,<br>
+  And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,<br>
+    And makes it bleed in vain!</p>
+
+<p>         *       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>  Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb<br>
+    With crooked arrows starred,<br>
+  Silently we went round and round<br>
+    The slippery asphalte yard;<br>
+  Silently we went round and round,<br>
+    And no man spoke a word.</p>
+
+<p>  Silently we went round and round,<br>
+    And through each hollow mind<br>
+  The Memory of dreadful things<br>
+    Rushed like a dreadful wind,<br>
+  And Horror stalked before each man,<br>
+    And Terror crept behind.</p>
+
+<p>         *       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>  The warders strutted up and down,<br>
+    And watched their herd of brutes,<br>
+  Their uniforms were spick and span,<br>
+    And they wore their Sunday suits,<br>
+  But we knew the work they had been at,<br>
+    By the quicklime on their boots.</p>
+
+<p>  For where a grave had opened wide,<br>
+    There was no grave at all:<br>
+  Only a stretch of mud and sand<br>
+    By the hideous prison-wall,<br>
+  And a little heap of burning lime,<br>
+    That the man should have his pall.</p>
+
+<p>  For he has a pall, this wretched man,<br>
+    Such as few men can claim:<br>
+  Deep down below a prison-yard,<br>
+    Naked for greater shame,<br>
+  He lies, with fetters on each foot,<br>
+    Wrapt in a sheet of flame!</p>
+
+<p>  And all the while the burning lime<br>
+    Eats flesh and bone away,<br>
+  It eats the brittle bone by night,<br>
+    And the soft flesh by day,<br>
+  It eats the flesh and bone by turns,<br>
+    But it eats the heart alway.</p>
+
+<p>       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>  For three long years they will not sow<br>
+    Or root or seedling there:<br>
+  For three long years the unblessed spot<br>
+    Will sterile be and bare,<br>
+  And look upon the wondering sky<br>
+    With unreproachful stare.</p>
+
+<p>  They think a murderer's heart would taint<br>
+    Each simple seed they sow.<br>
+  It is not true! God's kindly earth<br>
+    Is kindlier than men know,<br>
+  And the red rose would but blow more red,<br>
+    The white rose whiter blow.</p>
+
+<p>  Out of his mouth a red, red rose!<br>
+    Out of his heart a white!<br>
+  For who can say by what strange way,<br>
+    Christ brings His will to light,<br>
+  Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore<br>
+    Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?</p>
+
+<p>  But neither milk-white rose nor red<br>
+    May bloom in prison-air;<br>
+  The shard, the pebble, and the flint,<br>
+    Are what they give us there:<br>
+  For flowers have been known to heal<br>
+    A common man's despair.</p>
+
+<p>  So never will wine-red rose or white,<br>
+    Petal by petal, fall<br>
+  On that stretch of mud and sand that lies<br>
+    By the hideous prison-wall,<br>
+  To tell the men who tramp the yard<br>
+    That God's Son died for all.</p>
+
+<p>  Yet though the hideous prison-wall<br>
+    Still hems him round and round,<br>
+  And a spirit may not walk by night<br>
+    That is with fetters bound,<br>
+  And a spirit may but weep that lies<br>
+    In such unholy ground.</p>
+
+<p>  He is at peace-this wretched man--<br>
+    At peace, or will be soon:<br>
+  There is no thing to make him mad,<br>
+    Nor does Terror walk at noon,<br>
+  For the lampless Earth in which he lies<br>
+    Has neither Sun nor Moon.</p>
+
+<p>  They hanged him as a beast is hanged:<br>
+    They did not even toll<br>
+  A requiem that might have brought<br>
+    Rest to his startled soul,<br>
+  But hurriedly they took him out,<br>
+    And hid him in a hole.</p>
+
+<p>  The warders stripped him of his clothes,<br>
+    And gave him to the flies:<br>
+  They mocked the swollen purple throat,<br>
+    And the stark and staring eyes:<br>
+  And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud<br>
+    In which the convict lies.</p>
+
+<p>  The Chaplain would not kneel to pray<br>
+    By his dishonoured grave:<br>
+  Nor mark it with that blessed Cross<br>
+    That Christ for sinners gave,<br>
+  Because the man was one of those<br>
+    Whom Christ came down to save.</p>
+
+<p>  Yet all is well; he has but passed<br>
+    To Life's appointed bourne:<br>
+  And alien tears will fill for him<br>
+    Pity's long-broken urn,<br>
+  For his mourners will be outcast men,<br>
+    And outcasts always mourn.</p>
+
+<p>V</p>
+
+<p>  I know not whether Laws be right,<br>
+    Or whether Laws be wrong;<br>
+  All that we know who lie in gaol<br>
+    Is that the wall is strong;<br>
+  And that each day is like a year,<br>
+    A year whose days are long.</p>
+
+<p>  But this I know, that every Law<br>
+    That men have made for Man,<br>
+  Since first Man took his brother's life,<br>
+    And the sad world began,<br>
+  But straws the wheat and saves the chaff<br>
+    With a most evil fan.</p>
+
+<p>  This too I know--and wise it were<br>
+    If each could know the same--<br>
+  That every prison that men build<br>
+    Is built with bricks of shame,<br>
+  And bound with bars lest Christ should see<br>
+    How men their brothers maim.</p>
+
+<p>  With bars they blur the gracious moon,<br>
+    And blind the goodly sun:<br>
+  And they do well to hide their Hell,<br>
+    For in it things are done<br>
+  That Son of God nor son of Man<br>
+    Ever should look upon!</p>
+
+<p>         *       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>  The vilest deeds like poison weeds,<br>
+    Bloom well in prison-air;<br>
+  It is only what is good in Man<br>
+    That wastes and withers there:<br>
+  Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,<br>
+    And the Warder is Despair.</p>
+
+<p>  For they starve the little frightened child<br>
+    Till it weeps both night and day:<br>
+  And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,<br>
+    And gibe the old and grey,<br>
+  And some grow mad, and all grow bad,<br>
+    And none a word may say.</p>
+
+<p>  Each narrow cell in which we dwell<br>
+    Is a foul and dark latrine,<br>
+  And the fetid breath of living Death<br>
+    Chokes up each grated screen,<br>
+  And all, but Lust, is turned to dust<br>
+    In humanity's machine.</p>
+
+<p>  The brackish water that we drink<br>
+   Creeps with a loathsome slime,<br>
+  And the bitter bread they weigh in scales<br>
+   Is full of chalk and lime,<br>
+  And Sleep will not lie down, but walks<br>
+   Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.</p>
+
+<p>         *       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>  But though lean Hunger and green Thirst<br>
+   Like asp with adder fight,<br>
+  We have little care of prison fare,<br>
+   For what chills and kills outright<br>
+  Is that every stone one lifts by day<br>
+   Becomes one's heart by night.</p>
+
+<p>  With midnight always in one's heart,<br>
+   And twilight in one's cell,<br>
+  We turn the crank, or tear the rope,<br>
+   Each in his separate Hell,<br>
+  And the silence is more awful far<br>
+   Than the sound of a brazen bell.</p>
+
+<p>  And never a human voice comes near<br>
+   To speak a gentle word:<br>
+  And the eye that watches through the door<br>
+   Is pitiless and hard:<br>
+  And by all forgot, we rot and rot,<br>
+   With soul and body marred.</p>
+
+<p>  And thus we rust Life's iron chain<br>
+   Degraded and alone:<br>
+  And some men curse and some men weep,<br>
+    And some men make no moan:<br>
+  But God's eternal Laws are kind<br>
+    And break the heart of stone.</p>
+
+<p>  And every human heart that breaks,<br>
+    In prison-cell or yard,<br>
+  Is as that broken box that gave<br>
+    Its treasure to the Lord,<br>
+  And filled the unclean leper's house<br>
+    With the scent of costliest nard.</p>
+
+<p>  Ah! happy they whose hearts can break<br>
+    And peace of pardon win!<br>
+  How else man may make straight his plan<br>
+    And cleanse his soul from Sin?<br>
+  How else but through a broken heart<br>
+    May Lord Christ enter in?</p>
+
+<p>         *       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>  And he of the swollen purple throat,<br>
+    And the stark and staring eyes,<br>
+  Waits for the holy hands that took<br>
+    The Thief to Paradise;<br>
+  And a broken and a contrite heart<br>
+    The Lord will not despise.</p>
+
+<p>  The man in red who reads the Law<br>
+    Gave him three weeks of life,<br>
+  Three little weeks in which to heal    His soul of his soul's
+strife,<br>
+  And cleanse from every blot of blood<br>
+    The hand that held the knife.</p>
+
+<p>  And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,<br>
+    The hand that held the steel:<br>
+  For only blood can wipe out blood,<br>
+    And only tears can heal:<br>
+  And the crimson stain that was of Cain<br>
+    Became Christ's snow-white seal.</p>
+
+<p>VI</p>
+
+<p>  In Reading gaol by Reading town<br>
+    There is a pit of shame,<br>
+  And in it lies a wretched man<br>
+    Eaten by teeth of flame,<br>
+  In a burning winding-sheet he lies,<br>
+    And his grave has got no name.</p>
+
+<p>  And there, till Christ call forth the dead,<br>
+    In silence let him lie:<br>
+  No need to waste the foolish tear,<br>
+    Or heave the windy sigh:<br>
+  The man had killed the thing he loved,<br>
+    And so he had to die.</p>
+
+<p>  And all men kill the thing they love,<br>
+    By all let this be heard,<br>
+  Some do it with a bitter look,<br>
+    Some with a flattering word,<br>
+  The coward does it with a kiss,<br>
+    The brave man with a sword!</p>
+
+<p>APPENDIX</p>
+
+<p><i>From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume I.</i></p>
+
+<p>THE FROLICKSOME DUKE</p>
+
+<p>Printed from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection.</p>
+
+<p>KING ESTMERE</p>
+
+<p>This ballad is given from two versions, one in the Percy
+folio<br>
+manuscript, and of considerable antiquity. The original version
+was<br>
+probably written at the end of the fifteenth century.</p>
+
+<p>ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE</p>
+
+<p>One of the earliest known ballads about Robin Hood--from the
+Percy folio<br>
+manuscript.</p>
+
+<p>KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID</p>
+
+<p>This ballad is printed from Richard Johnson's <i>Crown Garland
+of<br>
+Goulden Roses,</i> 1612.</p>
+
+<p>THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY</p>
+
+<p>This ballad is composed of innumerable small fragments of
+ancient<br>
+ballads found throughout the plays of Shakespeare, which Thomas
+Percy<br>
+formed into one.</p>
+
+<p>SIR ALDINGAR</p>
+
+<p>Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with some additional
+stanzas<br>
+added by Thomas Percy to complete the story.</p>
+
+<p>EDOM O'GORDON</p>
+
+<p>A Scottish ballad--this version was printed at Glasgow in 1755
+by Robert<br>
+and Andrew Foulis. It has been enlarged with several stanzas,
+recovered<br>
+from a fragment of the same ballad, from the Percy folio
+manuscript.</p>
+
+
+<p>From the Percy folio manuscript, amended by two or three
+others printed<br>
+in black-letter. Written about the time of Elizabeth.</p>
+
+<p>SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE</p>
+
+<p>Given from a printed copy, corrected in part by an extract
+from the<br>
+Percy folio manuscript.</p>
+
+
+<p>THE CHILD OF ELLE</p>
+
+<p>Partly from the Percy folio manuscript, with several
+additional stanzas<br>
+by Percy as the original copy was defective and mutilated.</p>
+
+<p>KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAM WORTH</p>
+
+<p>The text in this ballad is selected from two copies in
+black-letter. One<br>
+in the Bodleian Library, printed at London by John Danter in
+1596. The<br>
+other copy, without date, is from the Pepys Collection.</p>
+
+<p>SIR PATRICK SPENS</p>
+
+<p>Printed from two manuscript copies transmitted from Scotland.
+It is<br>
+possible that this ballad is founded on historical fact.</p>
+
+<p>EDWARD, EDWARD</p>
+
+<p>An old Scottish ballad--from a manuscript copy transmitted
+from<br>
+Scotland.</p>
+
+<p>KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS</p>
+
+<p>Version from an old copy in the <i>Golden Garland,</i>
+black-letter,<br>
+entitled <i>A lamentable Song of the Death of King Lear and his
+Three<br>
+Daughters.</i></p>
+
+<p>THE GABERLUNZIE MAN</p>
+
+<p>This ballad is said to have been written by King James V of
+Scotland.</p>
+
+<p><br>
+<i>From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume II.</i></p>
+
+<p>THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER</p>
+
+<p>Printed from an old black-letter copy, with some
+corrections.</p>
+
+<p>KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY</p>
+
+<p>This ballad was abridged and modernized in the time of James I
+from one<br>
+much older, entitled <i>King John and the Bishop of
+Canterbury.</i> The<br>
+version given here is from an ancient black-letter copy.</p>
+
+<p>BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY</p>
+
+<p>Given, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy,
+entitled<br>
+<i>Barbara Alien's Cruelty, or the Young Man's Tragedy.</i></p>
+
+<p>FAIR ROSAMOND</p>
+
+<p>The version of this ballad given here is from four ancient
+copies in<br>
+black-letter: two of them in the Pepys' Library. It is by Thomas
+Delone.<br>
+First printed in 1612.</p>
+
+<p>THE BOY AND THE MANTLE</p>
+
+<p>This is a revised and modernized version of a very old
+ballad.</p>
+
+<p>THE HEIR OF LINNE</p>
+
+<p>Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional
+stanzas<br>
+supplied by Thomas Percy.</p>
+
+<p>SIR ANDREW BARTON</p>
+
+<p>This ballad is from the Percy folio manuscript with additions
+and<br>
+amendments from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys'
+Collection.<br>
+It was written probably at the end of the sixteenth century.</p>
+
+<p>THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN</p>
+
+<p>Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with a few additions
+and<br>
+alterations from two ancient printed copies.</p>
+
+<p>BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY</p>
+
+<p>Given from an old black-letter copy.</p>
+
+<p>THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE</p>
+
+<p>The version of an ancient black-letter copy, edited in part
+from the<br>
+Percy folio manuscript.</p>
+
+<p>GIL MORRICE</p>
+
+<p>The version of this ballad given here was printed at Glasgow
+in 1755.<br>
+Since this date sixteen additional verses have been discovered
+and added<br>
+to the original ballad.</p>
+
+<p>CHILD WATERS</p>
+
+<p>From the Percy folio manuscript, with corrections.</p>
+
+<p>THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON</p>
+
+<p>From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys'
+Collection.</p>
+
+<p>THE LYE</p>
+
+<p>By Sir Walter Raleigh. This poem is from a scarce miscellany
+entitled<br>
+<i>Davison's Poems, or a poeticall Rapsodie divided into sixe
+books ...<br>
+the 4th impression newly corrected and augmented and put into a
+forme<br>
+more pleasing to the reader.</i> Lond. 1621.</p>
+
+<p><br>
+<i>From "English and Scottish Ballads."</i></p>
+
+<p>MAY COLLIN</p>
+
+<p>From a manuscript at Abbotsford in the Sir Walter Scott
+Collection,<br>
+<i>Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy.</i></p>
+
+<p>THOMAS THE RHYMER</p>
+
+<p><i>Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy,</i> No.
+97,<br>
+Abbotsford. From the Sir Walter Scott Collection. Communicated to
+Sir<br>
+Walter by Mrs. Christiana Greenwood, London, May 27th, 1806.</p>
+
+<p>YOUNG BEICHAN</p>
+
+<p>Taken from the Jamieson-Brown manuscript, 1783.</p>
+
+<p>CLERK COLVILL</p>
+
+<p>From a transcript of No. 13 of William Tytler's Brown
+manuscript.</p>
+
+<p>THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER</p>
+
+<p>From Buchan's <i>Ballads of the North of Scotland,</i>
+1828.</p>
+
+<p>HYND HORN</p>
+
+<p>From Motherwell's manuscript, 1825 and after.</p>
+
+<p>THE THREE RAVENS</p>
+
+<p><i>Melismate. Musicall Phansies. Fitting the Court, Cittie and
+Country<br>
+Humours.</i> London, 1611. (T. Ravenscroft.)</p>
+
+<p>THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL</p>
+
+<p>Printed from <i>Ministrelsy of the Scottish Border</i>,
+1802.</p>
+
+<p>       *       *       *       *       *</p>
+
+<p>MANDALAY</p>
+
+<p>By Rudyard Kipling.</p>
+
+<p>JOHN BROWN'S BODY</p>
+
+<p>IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY</p>
+
+<p>By Jack Judge and Harry Williams.</p>
+
+<p>THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL</p>
+
+<p>By Oscar Wilde.</p>
+
+
+
+
+<br>
+<br>
+<hr>
+<br><br><br><br><br><br>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Book of Old Ballads, by Various
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+</body>
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+
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@@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
+This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
diff --git a/README.md b/README.md
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+++ b/README.md
@@ -0,0 +1,2 @@
+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #7535 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7535)
diff --git a/old/7535-8.txt b/old/7535-8.txt
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Book of Old Ballads, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Book of Old Ballads
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Beverly Nichols
+
+Posting Date: April 29, 2014 [EBook #7535]
+Release Date: February, 2005
+First Posted: May 15, 2003
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury, Charles Franks
+and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+A BOOK OF OLD BALLADS
+
+
+Selected and with an Introduction
+
+by
+
+BEVERLEY NICHOLS
+
+
+
+
+ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
+
+The thanks and acknowledgments of the publishers are due to the
+following: to Messrs. B. Feldman & Co., 125 Shaftesbury Avenue, W.C. 2,
+for "It's a Long Way to Tipperary"; to Mr. Rudyard Kipling and Messrs.
+Methuen & Co. for "Mandalay" from _Barrack Room Ballads_; and to
+the Executors of the late Oscar Wilde for "The Ballad of Reading Gaol."
+
+"The Earl of Mar's Daughter", "The Wife of Usher's Well", "The Three
+Ravens", "Thomas the Rhymer", "Clerk Colvill", "Young Beichen", "May
+Collin", and "Hynd Horn" have been reprinted from _English and
+Scottish Ballads_, edited by Mr. G. L. Kittredge and the late Mr. F.
+J. Child, and published by the Houghton Mifflin Company.
+
+The remainder of the ballads in this book, with the exception of "John
+Brown's Body", are from _Percy's Reliques_, Volumes I and II.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+FOREWORD
+MANDALAY
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+KING ESTMERE
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+MAY COLLIN
+THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+CLERK COLVILL
+SIR ALDINGAR
+EDOM O' GORDON
+CHEVY CHACE
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+GIL MORRICE
+THE CHILD OF ELLE
+CHILD WATERS
+KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+EDWARD, EDWARD
+KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+HYND HORN
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+TIPPERARY
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+THE THREE RAVENS
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+THE LYE
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+
+_The source of these ballads will be found in the Appendix at the end
+of this book._
+
+
+
+
+LIST OF COLOUR PLATES
+
+
+HYND HORN
+KING ESTMERE
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+MAY COLLIN
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+CLERK COLVILL
+GIL MORRICE
+CHILD WATERS
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+THE THREE RAVENS
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+
+
+
+
+FOREWORD
+
+By
+
+Beverley Nichols
+
+
+These poems are the very essence of the British spirit. They are, to
+literature, what the bloom of the heather is to the Scot, and the
+smell of the sea to the Englishman. All that is beautiful in the old
+word "patriotism" ... a word which, of late, has been twisted to such
+ignoble purposes ... is latent in these gay and full-blooded measures.
+
+But it is not only for these reasons that they are so valuable to the
+modern spirit. It is rather for their tonic qualities that they should
+be prescribed in 1934. The post-war vintage of poetry is the thinnest
+and the most watery that England has ever produced. But here, in these
+ballads, are great draughts of poetry which have lost none of their
+sparkle and none of their bouquet.
+
+It is worth while asking ourselves why this should be--why these poems
+should "keep", apparently for ever, when the average modern poem turns
+sour overnight. And though all generalizations are dangerous I believe
+there is one which explains our problem, a very simple one.... namely,
+that the eyes of the old ballad-singers were turned outwards, while the
+eyes of the modern lyric-writer are turned inwards.
+
+The authors of the old ballads wrote when the world was young, and
+infinitely exciting, when nobody knew what mystery might not lie on the
+other side of the hill, when the moon was a golden lamp, lit by a
+personal God, when giants and monsters stalked, without the slightest
+doubt, in the valleys over the river. In such a world, what could a man
+do but stare about him, with bright eyes, searching the horizon, while
+his heart beat fast in the rhythm of a song?
+
+But now--the mysteries have gone. We know, all too well, what lies on
+the other side of the hill. The scientists have long ago puffed out,
+scornfully, the golden lamp of the night ... leaving us in the uttermost
+darkness. The giants and the monsters have either skulked away or have
+been tamed, and are engaged in writing their memoirs for the popular
+press. And so, in a world where everything is known (and nothing
+understood), the modern lyric-writer wearily averts his eyes, and stares
+into his own heart.
+
+That way madness lies. All madmen are ferocious egotists, and so are all
+modern lyric-writers. That is the first and most vital difference
+between these ballads and their modern counterparts. The old
+ballad-singers hardly ever used the first person singular. The modern
+lyric-writer hardly ever uses anything else.
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+
+
+
+This is really such an important point that it is worth labouring.
+
+Why is ballad-making a lost art? That it _is_ a lost art there can
+be no question. Nobody who is painfully acquainted with the rambling,
+egotistical pieces of dreary versification, passing for modern
+"ballads", will deny it.
+
+Ballad-making is a lost art for a very simple reason. Which is, that we
+are all, nowadays, too sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought to
+receive emotions directly, without self-consciousness. If we are
+wounded, we are no longer able to sing a song about a clean sword, and a
+great cause, and a black enemy, and a waving flag. No--we must needs go
+into long descriptions of our pain, and abstruse calculations about its
+effect upon our souls.
+
+It is not "we" who have changed. It is life that has changed. "We" are
+still men, with the same legs, arms and eyes as our ancestors. But life
+has so twisted things that there are no longer any clean swords nor
+great causes, nor black enemies. And the flags do not know which way to
+flutter, so contrary are the winds of the modern world. All is doubt.
+And doubt's colour is grey.
+
+Grey is no colour for a ballad. Ballads are woven from stuff of
+primitive hue ... the red blood gushing, the gold sun shining, the green
+grass growing, the white snow falling. Never will you find grey in a
+ballad. You will find the black of the night and the raven's wing,
+and the silver of a thousand stars. You will find the blue of many
+summer skies. But you will not find grey.
+
+
+III
+
+
+That is why ballad-making is a lost art. Or almost a lost art. For even
+in this odd and musty world of phantoms which we call the twentieth
+century, there are times when a man finds himself in a certain place at
+a certain hour and something happens to him which takes him out of
+himself. And a song is born, simply and sweetly, a song which other
+men can sing, for all time, and forget themselves.
+
+Such a song was once written by a master at my old school, Marlborough.
+He was a Scot. But he loved Marlborough with the sort of love which the
+old ballad-mongers must have had-the sort of love which takes a man on
+wings, far from his foolish little body.
+
+He wrote a song called "The Scotch Marlburian".
+
+Here it is:--
+
+  Oh Marlborough, she's a toun o' touns
+  We will say that and mair,
+  We that ha' walked alang her douns
+  And snuffed her Wiltshire air.
+  A weary way ye'll hae to tramp
+  Afore ye match the green
+  O' Savernake and Barbery Camp
+  And a' that lies atween!
+
+The infinite beauty of that phrase ... "and a' that lies atween"! The
+infinite beauty as it is roared by seven hundred young throats in
+unison! For in that phrase there drifts a whole pageant of boyhood--the
+sound of cheers as a race is run on a stormy day in March, the tolling
+of the Chapel bell, the crack of ball against bat, the sighs of sleep
+in a long white dormitory.
+
+But you may say "What is all this to me? I wasn't at Maryborough. I
+don't like schoolboys ... they strike me as dirty, noisy, and usually
+foul-minded. Why should I go into raptures about such a song, which
+seems only to express a highly debatable approval of a certain method of
+education?"
+
+If you are asking yourself that sort of question, you are obviously in
+very grave need of the tonic properties of this book. For after you have
+read it, you will wonder why you ever asked it.
+
+
+IV
+
+I go back and back to the same point, at the risk of boring you to
+distraction. For it is a point which has much more "to" it than the
+average modern will care to admit, unless he is forced to do so.
+
+You remember the generalization about the eyes ... how they used to look
+_out_, but now look _in_? Well, listen to this....
+
+  _I'm_ feeling blue,
+  _I_ don't know what to do,
+  'Cos _I_ love you
+  And you don't love _me_.
+
+The above masterpiece is, as far as I am aware, imaginary. But it
+represents a sort of _reductio ad absurdum_ of thousands of lyrics
+which have been echoing over the post-war world. Nearly all these lyrics
+are melancholy, with the profound and primitive melancholy of the negro
+swamp, and they are all violently egotistical.
+
+Now this, in the long run, is an influence of far greater evil than one
+would be inclined at first to admit. If countless young men, every
+night, are to clasp countless young women to their bosoms, and rotate
+over countless dancing-floors, muttering "I'm feeling blue ... _I_
+don't know what to do", it is not unreasonable to suppose that they will
+subconsciously apply some of the lyric's mournful egotism to themselves.
+
+Anybody who has even a nodding acquaintance with modern psychological
+science will be aware of the significance of "conditioning", as applied
+to the human temperament. The late M. Coué "conditioned" people into
+happiness by making them repeat, over and over again, the phrase "Every
+day in every way I grow better and better and better."
+
+The modern lyric-monger exactly reverses M. Coué's doctrine. He makes
+the patient repeat "Every night, with all my might, I grow worse and
+worse and worse." Of course the "I" of the lyric-writer is an imaginary
+"I", but if any man sings "_I'm_ feeling blue", often enough, to a
+catchy tune, he will be a superman if he does not eventually apply that
+"I" to himself.
+
+But the "blueness" is really beside the point. It is the _egotism_
+of the modern ballad which is the trouble. Even when, as they
+occasionally do, the modern lyric-writers discover, to their
+astonishment, that they are feeling happy, they make the happiness such
+a personal issue that half its tonic value is destroyed. It is not, like
+the old ballads, just an outburst of delight, a sudden rapture at the
+warmth of the sun, or the song of the birds, or the glint of moonlight
+on a sword, or the dew in a woman's eyes. It is not an emotion so sweet
+and soaring that self is left behind, like a dull chrysalis, while the
+butterfly of the spirit flutters free. No ... the chrysalis is never
+left behind, the "I", "I", "I", continues, in a maddening monotone. And
+we get this sort of thing....
+
+  _I_ want to be happy,
+  But _I_ can't be happy
+  Till _I've_ made you happy too.
+
+And that, if you please, is one of the jolliest lyrics of the last
+decade! That was a song which made us all smile and set all our feet
+dancing!
+
+Even when their tale was woven out of the stuff of tragedy, the old
+ballads were not tarnished with such morbid speculations. Read the tale
+of the beggar's daughter of Bethnal Green. One shudders to think what a
+modern lyric-writer would make of it. We should all be in tears before
+the end of the first chorus.
+
+But here, a lovely girl leaves her blind father to search for fortune.
+She has many adventures, and in the end, she marries a knight. The
+ballad ends with words of almost childish simplicity, but they are words
+which ring with the true tone of happiness:--
+
+  Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte
+  A bridegroome most happy then was the young knighte
+  In joy and felicitie long lived hee
+  All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.
+
+I said that the words were of almost childish simplicity. But the
+student of language, and the would-be writer, might do worse than study
+those words, if only to see how the cumulative effect of brightness and
+radiance is gained. You may think the words are artless, but just
+ponder, for a moment, the number of brilliant verbal symbols which are
+collected into that tiny verse. There are only four lines. But those
+lines contain these words ...
+
+Feast, joy, delight, bridegroom, happy, joy, young, felicity, fair,
+pretty.
+
+Is that quite so artless, after all? Is it not rather like an old and
+primitive plaque, where colour is piled on colour till you would say
+the very wood will burst into flame ... and yet, the total effect is one
+of happy simplicity?
+
+
+V
+
+
+How were the early ballads born? Who made them? One man or many? Were
+they written down, when they were still young, or was it only after the
+lapse of many generations, when their rhymes had been sharpened and
+their metres polished by constant repetition, that they were finally
+copied out?
+
+To answer these questions would be one of the most fascinating tasks
+which the detective in letters could set himself. Grimm, listening
+in his fairyland, heard some of the earliest ballads, loved them,
+pondered on them, and suddenly startled the world by announcing that
+most ballads were not the work of a single author, but of the people at
+large. _Das Volk dichtet_, he said. And that phrase got him into a
+lot of trouble. People told him to get back to his fairyland and not
+make such ridiculous suggestions. For how, they asked, could a whole
+people make a poem? You might as well tell a thousand men to make a
+tune, limiting each of them to one note!
+
+To invest Grimm's words with such an intention is quite unfair.
+[Footnote:  For a discussion of Grimm's theories, together with much
+interesting speculation on the origin of the ballads, the reader should
+study the admirable introduction to _English and Scottish Popular
+Ballads_, published by George Harrap & Co., Ltd.] Obviously a
+multitude of people could not, deliberately, make a single poem any more
+than a multitude of people could, deliberately, make a single picture,
+one man doing the nose, one man an eye and so on. Such a suggestion is
+grotesque, and Grimm never meant it. If I might guess at what he meant,
+I would suggest that he was thinking that the origin of ballads must
+have been similar to the origin of the dance, (which was probably the
+earliest form of aesthetic expression known to man).
+
+The dance was invented because it provided a means of prolonging ecstasy
+by art. It may have been an ecstasy of sex or an ecstasy of victory ...
+that doesn't matter. The point is that it gave to a group of people an
+ordered means of expressing their delight instead of just leaping about
+and making loud cries, like the animals. And you may be sure that as the
+primitive dance began, there was always some member of the tribe a
+little more agile than the rest--some man who kicked a little higher or
+wriggled his body in an amusing way. And the rest of them copied him,
+and incorporated his step into their own.
+
+Apply this analogy to the origin of ballads. It fits perfectly.
+
+There has been a successful raid, or a wedding, or some great deed of
+daring, or some other phenomenal thing, natural or supernatural. And now
+that this day, which will ever linger in their memories, is drawing to
+its close, the members of the tribe draw round the fire and begin to
+make merry. The wine passes ... and tongues are loosened. And someone
+says a phrase which has rhythm and a sparkle to it, and the phrase is
+caught up and goes round the fire, and is repeated from mouth to mouth.
+And then the local wit caps it with another phrase and a rhyme is born.
+For there is always a local wit in every community, however primitive.
+There is even a local wit in the monkey house at the zoo.
+
+And once you have that single rhyme and that little piece of rhythm, you
+have the genesis of the whole thing. It may not be worked out that
+night, nor even by the men who first made it. The fire may long have
+died before the ballad is completed, and tall trees may stand over the
+men and women who were the first to tell the tale. But rhyme and rhythm
+are indestructible, if they are based on reality. "Not marble nor the
+gilded monuments of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme."
+
+And so it is that some of the loveliest poems in the language will ever
+remain anonymous. Needless to say, _all_ the poems are not
+anonymous. As society became more civilized it was inevitable that the
+peculiar circumstances from which the earlier ballads sprang should
+become less frequent. Nevertheless, about nearly all of the ballads
+there is "a common touch", as though even the most self-conscious author
+had drunk deep of the well of tradition, that sparkling well in which so
+much beauty is distilled.
+
+
+VI
+
+
+But though the author or authors of most of the ballads may be lost in
+the lists of time, we know a good deal about the minstrels who sang
+them. And it is a happy thought that those minstrels were such
+considerable persons, so honourably treated, so generously esteemed.
+The modern mind, accustomed to think of the singer of popular songs
+either as a highly paid music-hall artist, at the top of the ladder, or
+a shivering street-singer, at the bottom of it, may find it difficult to
+conceive of a minstrel as a sort of ambassador of song, moving from
+court to court with dignity and ceremony.
+
+Yet this was actually the case. In the ballad of King Estmere, for
+example, we see the minstrel finely mounted, and accompanied by a
+harpist, who sings his songs for him. This minstrel, too, moves among
+kings without any ceremony. As Percy has pointed out, "The further we
+carry our enquiries back, the greater respect we find paid to the
+professors of poetry and music among all the Celtic and Gothic nations.
+Their character was deemed so sacred that under its sanction our famous
+King Alfred made no scruple to enter the Danish camp, and was at once
+admitted to the king's headquarters."
+
+_And even so late as the time of Froissart, we have minstrels and
+heralds mentioned together, as those who might securely go into an
+enemy's country._
+
+The reader will perhaps forgive me if I harp back, once more, to our
+present day and age, in view of the quite astonishing change in national
+psychology which that revelation implies. Minstrels and heralds were
+once allowed safe conduct into the enemy's country, in time of war. Yet,
+in the last war, it was considered right and proper to hiss the work of
+Beethoven off the stage, and responsible newspapers seriously suggested
+that never again should a note of German music, of however great
+antiquity, be heard in England! We are supposed to have progressed
+towards internationalism, nowadays. Whereas, in reality, we have grown
+more and more frenziedly national. We are very far behind the age of
+Froissart, when there was a true internationalism--the internationalism
+of art.
+
+To some of us that is still a very real internationalism. When we hear a
+Beethoven sonata we do not think of it as issuing from the brain of a
+"Teuton" but as blowing from the eternal heights of music whose winds
+list nothing of frontiers.
+
+Man _needs_ song, for he is a singing animal. Moreover, he needs
+communal song, for he is a social animal. The military authorities
+realized this very cleverly, and they encouraged the troops, during the
+war, to sing on every possible occasion. Crazy pacifists, like myself,
+may find it almost unbearably bitter to think that on each side of
+various frontiers young men were being trained to sing themselves to
+death, in a struggle which was hideously impersonal, a struggle of
+machinery, in which the only winners were the armament manufacturers.
+And crazy pacifists might draw a very sharp line indeed between the
+songs which celebrated real personal struggles in the tiny wars of the
+past, and the songs which were merely the prelude to thousands of
+puzzled young men suddenly finding themselves choking in chlorine gas,
+in the wars of the present.
+
+But even the craziest pacifist could not fail to be moved by some of the
+ballads of the last war. To me, "Tipperary" is still the most moving
+tune in the world. It happens to be a very good tune, from the
+musician's point of view, a tune that Handel would not have been ashamed
+to write, but that is not the point. Its emotional qualities are due to
+its associations. Perhaps that is how it has always been, with ballads.
+From the standard of pure aesthetics, one ought not to consider
+"associations" in judging a poem or a tune, but with a song like
+"Tipperary" you would be an inhuman prig if you didn't. We all have our
+"associations" with this particular tune. For me, it recalls a window in
+Hampstead, on a grey day in October 1914. I had been having the measles,
+and had not been allowed to go back to school. Then suddenly, down the
+street, that tune echoed. And they came marching, and marching, and
+marching. And they were all so happy.
+
+So happy.
+
+
+VII
+
+
+"Tipperary" is a true ballad, which is why it is included in this book.
+So is "John Brown's Body". They were not written as ballads but they
+have been promoted to that proud position by popular vote.
+
+It will now be clear, from the foregoing remarks, that there are
+thousands of poems, labelled "ballads" from the eighteenth century,
+through the romantic movement, and onwards, which are not ballads at
+all. Swinburne's ballads, which so shocked our grandparents, bore about
+as much relation to the true ballads as a vase of wax fruit to a
+hawker's barrow. They were lovely patterns of words, woven like some
+exquisite, foaming lace, but they were Swinburne, Swinburne all the
+time. They had nothing to do with the common people. The common people
+would not have understood a word of them.
+
+Ballads _must_ be popular. And that is why it will always remain
+one of the weirdest paradoxes of literature that the only man, except
+Kipling, who has written a true ballad in the last fifty years is the
+man who despised the people, who shrank from them, and jeered at them,
+from his little gilded niche in Piccadilly. I refer, of course, to Oscar
+Wilde's "Ballad of Reading Gaol." It was a true ballad, and it was the
+best thing he ever wrote. For it was written _de profundis_, when
+his hands were bloody with labour and his tortured spirit had been down
+to the level of the lowest, to the level of the pavement ... nay, lower
+... to the gutter itself. And in the gutter, with agony, he learned the
+meaning of song.
+
+Ballads begin and end with the people. You cannot escape that fact. And
+therefore, if I wished to collect the ballads of the future, the songs
+which will endure into the next century (if there _is_ any song in
+the next century), I should not rake through the contemporary poets, in
+the hope of finding gems of lasting brilliance. No. I should go to the
+music-halls. I should listen to the sort of thing they sing when the
+faded lady with the high bust steps forward and shouts, "Now then, boys,
+all together!"
+
+Unless you can write the words "Now then, boys, all together", at the
+top of a ballad, it is not really a ballad at all. That may sound a
+sweeping statement, but it is true.
+
+In the present-day music-halls, although they have fallen from their
+high estate, we should find a number of these songs which seem destined
+for immortality. One of these is "Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore."
+
+Do you remember it?
+
+  Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!
+  Mrs. Moore, oh don't 'ave any more!
+  Too many double gins
+  Give the ladies double chins,
+  So don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!
+
+The whole of English "low life" (which is much the most exciting part of
+English life) is in that lyric. It is as vivid as a Rowlandson cartoon.
+How well we know Mrs. Moore! How plainly we see her ... the amiable,
+coarse-mouthed, generous-hearted tippler, with her elbow on countless
+counters, her damp coppers clutched in her rough hands, her eyes
+staring, a little vacantly, about her. Some may think it is a sordid
+picture, but I am sure that they cannot know Mrs. Moore very well if
+they think that. They cannot know her bitter struggles, her silent
+heroisms, nor her sardonic humour.
+
+Lyrics such as these will, I believe, endure long after many of the most
+renowned and fashionable poets of to-day are forgotten. They all have
+the same quality, that they can be prefaced by that inspiring sentence,
+"Now then, boys--all together!" Or to put it another way, as in the
+ballad of George Barnwell,
+
+  All youths of fair England
+  That dwell both far and near,
+  Regard my story that I tell
+  And to my song give ear.
+
+That may sound more dignified, but it amounts to the same thing!
+
+
+VIII
+
+
+But if the generation to come will learn a great deal from the few
+popular ballads which we are still creating in our music-halls, how much
+more shall we learn of history from these ballads, which rang through
+the whole country, and were impregnated with the spirit of a whole
+people! These ballads _are_ history, and as such they should be
+recognised.
+
+It has always seemed to me that we teach history in the wrong way. We
+give boys the impression that it is an affair only of kings and queens
+and great statesmen, of generals and admirals, and such-like bores.
+Thousands of boys could probably draw you a map of many pettifogging
+little campaigns, with startling accuracy, but not one in a thousand
+could tell you what the private soldier carried in his knapsack. You
+could get sheaves of competent essays, from any school, dealing with
+such things as the Elizabethan ecclesiastical settlement, but how many
+boys could tell you, even vaguely, what an English home was like, what
+they ate, what coins were used, how their rooms were lit, and what they
+paid their servants?
+
+In other words, how many history masters ever take the trouble to sketch
+in the great background, the life of the common people? How many even
+realize their _existence_, except on occasions of national
+disaster, such as the Black Plague?
+
+A proper study of the ballads would go a long way towards remedying this
+defect. Thomas Percy, whose _Reliques_ must ever be the main source
+of our information on all questions connected with ballads, has pointed
+out that all the great events of the country have, sooner or later,
+found their way into the country's song-book. But it is not only the
+resounding names that are celebrated. In the ballads we hear the echoes
+of the street, the rude laughter and the pointed jests. Sometimes these
+ring so plainly that they need no explanation. At other times, we have
+to go to Percy or to some of his successors to realize the true
+significance of the song.
+
+For example, the famous ballad "John Anderson my Jo" seems, at first
+sight, to be innocent of any polemical intention. But it was written
+during the Reformation when, as Percy dryly observes, "the Muses were
+deeply engaged in religious controversy." The zeal of the Scottish
+reformers was at its height, and this zeal found vent in many a pasquil
+discharged at Popery. It caused them, indeed, in their frenzy, to
+compose songs which were grossly licentious, and to sing these songs in
+rasping voices to the tunes of some of the most popular hymns in the
+Latin Service.
+
+"John Anderson my Jo" was such a ballad composed for such an occasion.
+And Percy, who was more qualified than any other man to read between the
+lines, has pointed out that the first stanza contains a satirical
+allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy, while the second, which
+makes an apparently light reference to "seven bairns", is actually
+concerned with the seven sacraments, five of which were the spurious
+offspring of Mother Church.
+
+Thus it was in a thousand cases. The ballads, even the lightest and most
+blossoming of them, were deep-rooted in the soil of English history. How
+different from anything that we possess to-day! Great causes do not lead
+men to song, nowadays they lead them to write letters to the newspapers.
+A national thanksgiving cannot call forth a single rhyme or a single bar
+of music. Who can remember a solitary verse of thanksgiving, from any of
+our poets, in commemoration of any of the victories of the Great War?
+Who can recall even a fragment of verse in praise of the long-deferred
+coming of Peace?
+
+Very deeply significant is it that our only method of commemorating
+Armistice Day was by a two minutes silence. No song. No music. Nothing.
+The best thing we could do, we felt, was to keep quiet.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+MANDALAY
+
+
+  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
+  There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
+  For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
+  'Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!'
+  Come you back to Mandalay,
+  Where the old Flotilla lay:
+  Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
+  On the road to Mandalay,
+  Where the flyin'-fishes play,
+  An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
+
+  'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
+  An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
+  An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
+  An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
+      Bloomin' idol made o' mud--
+      Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--
+      Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
+  She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing _'Kulla-lo-lo!'_
+  With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek
+  We useter watch the steamers an' the _hathis_ pilin' teak.
+      Elephints a-pilin' teak
+      In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
+      Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away,
+  An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
+  An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
+  'If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught
+            else.'
+      No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
+      But them spicy garlic smells,
+      An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
+  An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
+  Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
+  An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
+      Beefy face an' grubby 'and--
+      Law! wot do they understand?
+      I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
+      On the road to Mandalay ...
+
+  Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
+  Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
+  For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be--
+  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
+         On the road to Mandalay,
+         Where the old Flotilla lay,
+         With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
+         O the road to Mandalay,
+         Where the flyin'-fishes play,
+         An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+
+or
+
+THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE
+
+
+  Now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court,
+  One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport:
+  But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest,
+  Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest:
+  A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground,
+  As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.
+
+  The Duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben,
+  Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then.
+  O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd
+  To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd:
+  Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose,
+  And they put him to bed for to take his repose.
+
+  Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt,
+  They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt:
+  On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,
+  They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown.
+  In the morning when day, then admiring he lay,
+  For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay.
+
+  Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state,
+  Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait;
+  And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare,
+  He desired to know what apparel he'd ware:
+  The poor tinker amaz'd on the gentleman gaz'd,
+  And admired how he to this honour was rais'd.
+
+  Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit,
+  Which he straitways put on without longer dispute;
+  With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd,
+  And it seem'd for to swell him "no" little with pride;
+  For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife?
+  Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.
+
+  From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace
+  Did observe his behaviour in every case.
+  To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait,
+  Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great:
+  Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view,
+  With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew.
+
+  A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests,
+  He was plac'd at the table above all the rest,
+  In a rich chair "or bed," lin'd with fine crimson red,
+  With a rich golden canopy over his head:
+  As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet,
+  With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.
+
+  While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine,
+  Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine.
+  Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl,
+  Till at last he began for to tumble and roul
+  From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,
+  Being seven times drunker than ever before.
+
+  Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain,
+  And restore him his old leather garments again:
+  'T was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must,
+  And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first;
+  There he slept all the night, as indeed well he might;
+  But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.
+
+  For his glory "to him" so pleasant did seem,
+  That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream;
+  Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought
+  For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought;
+  But his highness he said, Thou 'rt a jolly bold blade,
+  Such a frolick before I think never was plaid.
+
+  Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak,
+  Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak;
+  Nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground,
+  Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round,
+  Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend,
+  Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend.
+
+  Then the tinker reply'd, What! must Joan my sweet bride
+  Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride?
+  Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command?
+  Then I shall be a squire I well understand:
+  Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace,
+  I was never before in so happy a case.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+THE KNIGHT & SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+
+
+  There was a shepherd's daughter
+    Came tripping on the waye;
+  And there by chance a knighte shee mett,
+    Which caused her to staye.
+
+  Good morrowe to you, beauteous maide,
+    These words pronounced hee:
+  O I shall dye this daye, he sayd,
+    If Ive not my wille of thee.
+
+  The Lord forbid, the maide replyde,
+    That you shold waxe so wode!
+  "But for all that shee could do or saye,
+    He wold not be withstood."
+
+  Sith you have had your wille of mee,
+    And put me to open shame,
+  Now, if you are a courteous knighte,
+    Tell me what is your name?
+
+  Some do call mee Jacke, sweet heart,
+    And some do call mee Jille;
+  But when I come to the kings faire courte
+    They call me Wilfulle Wille.
+
+  He sett his foot into the stirrup,
+    And awaye then he did ride;
+  She tuckt her girdle about her middle,
+    And ranne close by his side.
+
+  But when she came to the brode water,
+    She sett her brest and swamme;
+  And when she was got out againe,
+    She tooke to her heels and ranne.
+
+  He never was the courteous knighte,
+    To saye, faire maide, will ye ride?
+  "And she was ever too loving a maide
+    To saye, sir knighte abide."
+
+  When she came to the kings faire courte,
+    She knocked at the ring;
+  So readye was the king himself
+    To let this faire maide in.
+
+  Now Christ you save, my gracious liege,
+    Now Christ you save and see,
+  You have a knighte within your courte,
+    This daye hath robbed mee.
+
+  What hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart?
+    Of purple or of pall?
+  Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring
+    From off thy finger small?
+
+  He hath not robbed mee, my liege,
+    Of purple nor of pall:
+  But he hath gotten my maiden head,
+    Which grieves mee worst of all.
+
+  Now if he be a batchelor,
+    His bodye He give to thee;
+  But if he be a married man,
+    High hanged he shall bee.
+
+  He called downe his merrye men all,
+    By one, by two, by three;
+  Sir William used to bee the first,
+    But nowe the last came hee.
+
+  He brought her downe full fortye pounde,
+    Tyed up withinne a glove:
+  Faire maide, He give the same to thee;
+    Go, seeke thee another love.
+
+  O Ile have none of your gold, she sayde,
+    Nor Ile have none of your fee;
+  But your faire bodye I must have,
+    The king hath granted mee.
+
+  Sir William ranne and fetched her then
+    Five hundred pound in golde,
+  Saying, faire maide, take this to thee,
+    Thy fault will never be tolde.
+
+  Tis not the gold that shall mee tempt,
+    These words then answered shee,
+  But your own bodye I must have,
+    The king hath granted mee.
+
+  Would I had dranke the water cleare,
+    When I did drinke the wine,
+  Rather than any shepherds brat
+    Shold bee a ladye of mine!
+
+  Would I had drank the puddle foule,
+    When I did drink the ale,
+  Rather than ever a shepherds brat
+    Shold tell me such a tale!
+
+  A shepherds brat even as I was,
+    You mote have let me bee,
+  I never had come to the kings faire courte,
+    To crave any love of thee.
+
+  He sett her on a milk-white steede,
+    And himself upon a graye;
+  He hung a bugle about his necke,
+    And soe they rode awaye.
+
+  But when they came unto the place,
+    Where marriage-rites were done,
+  She proved herself a dukes daughtèr,
+    And he but a squires sonne.
+
+  Now marrye me, or not, sir knight,
+    Your pleasure shall be free:
+  If you make me ladye of one good towne,
+    He make you lord of three.
+
+  Ah! cursed bee the gold, he sayd,
+    If thou hadst not been trewe,
+  I shold have forsaken my sweet love,
+    And have changed her for a newe.
+
+  And now their hearts being linked fast,
+    They joyned hand in hande:
+  Thus he had both purse, and person too,
+    And all at his commande.
+
+
+
+
+
+KING ESTMERE
+
+
+  Hearken to me, gentlemen,
+    Come and you shall heare;
+  Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren
+    That ever borne y-were.
+
+  The tone of them was Adler younge,
+    The tother was kyng Estmere;
+  The were as bolde men in their deeds,
+    As any were farr and neare.
+
+  As they were drinking ale and wine
+    Within kyng Estmeres halle:
+  When will ye marry a wyfe, brothèr,
+    A wyfe to glad us all?
+
+  Then bespake him kyng Estmere,
+    And answered him hastilee:
+  I know not that ladye in any land
+    That's able to marrye with mee.
+
+  Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother,
+    Men call her bright and sheene;
+  If I were kyng here in your stead,
+    That ladye shold be my queene.
+
+  Saies, Reade me, reade me, deare brother,
+    Throughout merry Englànd,
+  Where we might find a messenger
+    Betwixt us towe to sende.
+
+  Saies, You shal ryde yourselfe, brothèr,
+    Ile beare you companye;
+  Many throughe fals messengers are deceived,
+    And I feare lest soe shold wee.
+
+  Thus the renisht them to ryde
+    Of twoe good renisht steeds,
+  And when the came to kyng Adlands halle,
+    Of redd gold shone their weeds.
+
+  And when the came to kyng Adlands hall
+    Before the goodlye gate,
+  There they found good kyng Adlànd
+    Rearing himselfe theratt.
+
+  Now Christ thee save, good kyng Adland;
+   Now Christ you save and see.
+  Sayd, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
+   Right hartilye to mee.
+
+  You have a daughter, said Adler younge,
+   Men call her bright and sheene,
+  My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe,
+   Of Englande to be queene.
+
+  Yesterday was att my deere daughter
+   Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne;
+  And then she nicked him of naye,
+   And I doubt sheele do you the same.
+
+  The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim,
+   And 'leeveth on Mahound;
+  And pitye it were that fayre ladye
+   Shold marrye a heathen hound.
+
+  But grant to me, sayes kyng Estmere,
+   For my love I you praye;
+  That I may see your daughter deere
+   Before I goe hence awaye.
+
+  Although itt is seven yeers and more
+   Since my daughter was in halle,
+  She shall come once downe for your sake
+   To glad my guestes alle.
+
+  Downe then came that mayden fayre,
+    With ladyes laced in pall,
+  And halfe a hundred of bold knightes,
+    To bring her from bowre to hall;
+  And as many gentle squiers,
+    To tend upon them all.
+
+  The talents of golde were on her head sette,
+    Hanged low downe to her knee;
+  And everye ring on her small fingèr
+    Shone of the chrystall free.
+
+  Saies, God you save, my deere madam;
+    Saies, God you save and see.
+  Said, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
+    Right welcome unto mee.
+
+  And if you love me, as you saye,
+    Soe well and hartilye,
+  All that ever you are comin about
+    Sooner sped now itt shal bee.
+
+  Then bespake her father deare:
+    My daughter, I saye naye;
+  Remember well the kyng of Spayne,
+    What he sayd yesterday.
+
+  He wold pull downe my hales and castles,
+     And reeve me of my life.
+  I cannot blame him if he doe,
+     If I reave him of his wyfe.
+
+  Your castles and your towres, father,
+     Are stronglye built aboute;
+  And therefore of the king of Spaine
+     Wee neede not stande in doubt.
+
+  Plight me your troth, nowe, kyng Estmère,
+     By heaven and your righte hand,
+  That you will marrye me to your wyfe,
+     And make me queene of your land.
+
+  Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth
+     By heaven and his righte hand,
+  That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe,
+     And make her queene of his land.
+
+  And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,
+     To goe to his owne countree,
+  To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,
+     That marryed the might bee.
+
+  They had not ridden scant a myle,
+     A myle forthe of the towne,
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
+     With kempès many one.
+
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
+     With manye a bold barone,
+  Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,
+     Tother daye to carrye her home.
+
+  Shee sent one after kyng Estmere
+     In all the spede might bee,
+  That he must either turne againe and fighte,
+     Or goe home and loose his ladye.
+
+  One whyle then the page he went,
+     Another while he ranne;
+  Tull he had oretaken king Estmere,
+      I wis, he never blanne.
+
+  Tydings, tydings, kyng Estmere!
+     What tydinges nowe, my boye?
+  O tydinges I can tell to you,
+     That will you sore annoye.
+
+  You had not ridden scant a mile,
+     A mile out of the towne,
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne
+     With kempès many a one:
+
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne
+     With manye a bold barone,
+  Tone daye to marrye king Adlands daughter,
+     Tother daye to carry her home.
+
+  My ladye fayre she greetes you well,
+   And ever-more well by mee:
+  You must either turne againe and fighte,
+   Or goe home and loose your ladyè.
+
+  Saies, Reade me, reade me, deere brother,
+   My reade shall ryde at thee,
+  Whether it is better to turne and fighte,
+   Or goe home and loose my ladye.
+
+  Now hearken to me, sayes Adler yonge,
+   And your reade must rise at me,
+  I quicklye will devise a waye
+   To sette thy ladye free.
+
+  My mother was a westerne woman,
+   And learned in gramaryè,
+  And when I learned at the schole,
+   Something she taught itt mee.
+
+  There growes an hearbe within this field,
+   And iff it were but knowne,
+  His color, which is whyte and redd,
+   It will make blacke and browne:
+
+  His color, which is browne and blacke,
+   Itt will make redd and whyte;
+  That sworde is not in all Englande,
+   Upon his coate will byte.
+
+  And you shall be a harper, brother,
+    Out of the north countrye;
+  And He be your boy, soe faine of fighte,
+    And beare your harpe by your knee.
+
+  And you shal be the best harpèr,
+    That ever tooke harpe in hand;
+  And I wil be the best singèr,
+    That ever sung in this lande.
+
+  Itt shal be written on our forheads
+    All and in grammaryè,
+  That we towe are the boldest men,
+    That are in all Christentyè.
+
+  And thus they renisht them to ryde,
+    On tow good renish steedes;
+  And when they came to king Adlands hall,
+    Of redd gold shone their weedes.
+
+  And whan they came to kyng Adlands hall,
+    Untill the fayre hall yate,
+  There they found a proud portèr
+    Rearing himselfe thereatt.
+
+  Sayes, Christ thee save, thou proud portèr;
+    Sayes, Christ thee save and see.
+  Nowe you be welcome, sayd the portèr,
+    Of whatsoever land ye bee.
+
+  Wee beene harpers, sayd Adler younge,
+    Come out of the northe countrye;
+  Wee beene come hither untill this place,
+    This proud weddinge for to see.
+
+  Sayd, And your color were white and redd,
+    As it is blacke and browne,
+  I wold saye king Estmere and his brother,
+    Were comen untill this towne.
+
+  Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,
+    Layd itt on the porters arme:
+  And ever we will thee, proud porter,
+    Thow wilt saye us no harme.
+
+  Sore he looked on king Estmere,
+    And sore he handled the ryng,
+  Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,
+    He lett for no kind of thyng.
+
+  King Estmere he stabled his steede
+    Soe fayre att the hall bord;
+  The froth, that came from his brydle bitte,
+    Light in kyng Bremors beard.
+
+  Saies, Stable thy steed, thou proud harper,
+    Saies, Stable him in the stalle;
+  It doth not beseeme a proud harper
+    To stable 'him' in a kyngs halle.
+
+  My ladde he is no lither, he said,
+    He will doe nought that's meete;
+  And is there any man in this hall
+    Were able him to beate
+
+  Thou speakst proud words, sayes the king of Spaine,
+    Thou harper, here to mee:
+  There is a man within this halle
+    Will beate thy ladd and thee.
+
+  O let that man come downe, he said,
+    A sight of him wold I see;
+  And when hee hath beaten well my ladd,
+    Then he shall beate of mee.
+
+  Downe then came the kemperye man,
+    And looketh him in the eare;
+  For all the gold, that was under heaven,
+    He durst not neigh him neare.
+
+  And how nowe, kempe, said the Kyng of Spaine,
+    And how what aileth thee?
+  He saies, It is writt in his forhead
+    All and in gramaryè,
+  That for all the gold that is under heaven
+    I dare not neigh him nye.
+
+  Then Kyng Estmere pulld forth his harpe,
+    And plaid a pretty thinge:
+  The ladye upstart from the borde,
+    And wold have gone from the king.
+
+  Stay thy harpe, thou proud harper,
+    For Gods love I pray thee,
+  For and thou playes as thou beginns,
+    Thou'lt till my bryde from mee.
+
+  He stroake upon his harpe againe,
+    And playd a pretty thinge;
+  The ladye lough a loud laughter,
+    As shee sate by the king.
+
+  Saies, Sell me thy harpe, thou proud harper,
+    And thy stringes all,
+  For as many gold nobles 'thou shall have'
+    As heere bee ringes in the hall.
+
+  What wold ye doe with my harpe,' he sayd,'
+    If I did sell itt yee?
+  "To playe my wiffe and me a fitt,
+    When abed together wee bee."
+
+  Now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay,
+    As shee sitts by thy knee,
+  And as many gold nobles I will give,
+    As leaves been on a tree.
+
+  And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay,
+    Iff I did sell her thee?
+  More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye
+    To lye by mee then thee.
+
+  Hee played agayne both loud and shrille,
+    And Adler he did syng,
+  "O ladye, this is thy owne true love;
+    Noe harper, but a kyng.
+
+  "O ladye, this is thy owne true love,
+    As playnlye thou mayest see;
+  And He rid thee of that foule paynim,
+    Who partes thy love and thee."
+
+  The ladye looked, the ladye blushte,
+    And blushte and lookt agayne,
+  While Adler he hath drawne his brande,
+    And hath the Sowdan slayne.
+
+  Up then rose the kemperye men,
+    And loud they gan to crye:
+  Ah; traytors, yee have slayne our kyng,
+    And therefore yee shall dye.
+
+  Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,
+    And swith he drew his brand;
+  And Estmere he, and Adler yonge
+    Right stiffe in slodr can stand.
+
+  And aye their swordes soe sore can byte,
+    Throughe help of Gramaryè,
+  That soone they have slayne the kempery men,
+    Or forst them forth to flee.
+
+  Kyng Estmere took that fayre ladye,
+    And marryed her to his wiffe,
+  And brought her home to merry England
+    With her to leade his life.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+
+
+  An ancient story Ile tell you anon
+  Of a notable prince, that was called King John;
+  And he ruled England with maine and with might,
+  For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.
+
+  And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,
+  Concerning the Abbot of Canterbùrye;
+  How for his house-keeping, and high renowne,
+  They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
+
+  An hundred men, the king did heare say,
+  The abbot kept in his house every day;
+  And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,
+  In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
+
+  How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,
+  Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,
+  And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,
+  I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.
+
+  My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne,
+  I never spend nothing, but what is my owne;
+  And I trust, your grace will doe me no deere,
+  For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.
+
+  Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe,
+  And now for the same thou needest must dye;
+  For except thou canst answer me questions three,
+  Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe.
+
+  And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead,
+  With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,
+  Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
+  Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
+
+  Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,
+  How soone I may ride the whole world about.
+  And at the third question thou must not shrink,
+  But tell me here truly what I do think.
+
+  O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
+  Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:
+  But if you will give me but three weekes space,
+  Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.
+
+  Now three weeks space to thee will I give,
+  And that is the longest time thou hast to live;
+  For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
+  Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.
+
+  Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,
+  And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;
+  But never a doctor there was so wise,
+  That could with his learning an answer devise.
+
+  Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,
+  And he mett his shepheard a going to fold:
+  How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;
+  What newes do you bring us from good King John?
+
+  "Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give;
+  That I have but three days more to live:
+  For if I do not answer him questions three,
+  My head will be smitten from my bodie.
+
+  The first is to tell him there in that stead,
+  With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,
+  Among all his liege men so noble of birth,
+  To within one penny of all what he is worth.
+
+  The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
+  How soon he may ride this whole world about:
+  And at the third question I must not shrinke,
+  But tell him there truly what he does thinke."
+
+  Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,
+  That a fool he may learn a wise man witt?
+  Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,
+  And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
+
+  Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
+  I am like your lordship, as ever may bee:
+  And if you will but lend me your gowne,
+  There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.
+
+  Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have,
+  With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;
+  With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,
+  Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.
+
+  Now welcome, sire abbott, the king he did say,
+  'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day;
+  For and if thou canst answer my questions three,
+  Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
+
+  And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
+  With my crowne of gold so fair on my head,
+  Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
+  Tell me to one penny what I am worth.
+
+  "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
+  Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told;
+  And twenty nine is the worth of thee,
+  For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,
+  I did not thinke I had been worth so littel!
+  --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,
+  How soon I may ride this whole world about.
+
+  "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
+  Until the next morning he riseth againe;
+  And then your grace need not make any doubt,
+  But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
+  I did not think, it could be gone so soone!
+  --Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,
+  But tell me here truly what I do thinke.
+
+  "Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:
+  You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbùry;
+  But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
+  That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
+  He make thee lord abbot this day in his place!
+  "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
+  For alacke I can neither write ne reade."
+
+  Four nobles a weeke, then I will give thee,
+  For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee;
+  And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,
+  Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.
+
+
+
+
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+
+
+  In Scarlet towne where I was borne,
+    There was a faire maid dwellin,
+  Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye!
+    Her name was Barbara Allen.
+
+  All in the merrye month of May,
+    When greene buds they were swellin,
+  Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,
+    For love of Barbara Allen.
+
+  He sent his man unto her then,
+    To the town where shee was dwellin;
+  You must come to my master deare,
+    Giff your name be Barbara Alien.
+
+  For death is printed on his face,
+    And ore his harte is stealin:
+  Then haste away to comfort him,
+    O lovelye Barbara Alien.
+
+  Though death be printed on his face,
+    And ore his harte is stealin,
+  Yet little better shall he bee
+    For bonny Barbara Alien.
+
+  So slowly, slowly, she came up,
+    And slowly she came nye him;
+  And all she sayd, when there she came,
+    Yong man, I think y'are dying.
+
+  He turned his face unto her strait,
+    With deadlye sorrow sighing;
+  O lovely maid, come pity mee,
+    Ime on my death-bed lying.
+
+  If on your death-bed you doe lye,
+    What needs the tale you are tellin;
+  I cannot keep you from your death;
+    Farewell, sayd Barbara Alien.
+
+  He turned his face unto the wall,
+    As deadlye pangs he fell in:
+  Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all,
+    Adieu to Barbara Allen.
+
+  As she was walking ore the fields,
+    She heard the bell a knellin;
+  And every stroke did seem to saye,
+    Unworthye Barbara Allen.
+
+  She turned her bodye round about,
+    And spied the corps a coming:
+  Laye down, lay down the corps, she sayd,
+    That I may look upon him.
+
+  With scornful eye she looked downe,
+    Her cheeke with laughter swellin;
+  Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine,
+    Unworthye Barbara Allen.
+
+  When he was dead, and laid in grave,
+    Her harte was struck with sorrowe,
+  O mother, mother, make my bed,
+    For I shall dye to-morrowe.
+
+  Hard-harted creature him to slight,
+    Who loved me so dearlye:
+  O that I had beene more kind to him
+    When he was alive and neare me!
+
+  She, on her death-bed as she laye,
+    Beg'd to be buried by him;
+  And sore repented of the daye,
+    That she did ere denye him.
+
+  Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all,
+    And shun the fault I fell in:
+  Henceforth take warning by the fall
+    Of cruel Barbara Allen.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+
+
+  When as King Henry rulde this land,
+    The second of that name,
+  Besides the queene, he dearly lovde
+    A faire and comely dame.
+
+  Most peerlesse was her beautye founde,
+    Her favour, and her face;
+  A sweeter creature in this worlde
+    Could never prince embrace.
+
+  Her crisped lockes like threads of golde
+    Appeard to each mans sight;
+  Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles,
+    Did cast a heavenlye light.
+
+  The blood within her crystal cheekes
+    Did such a colour drive,
+  As though the lillye and the rose
+    For mastership did strive.
+
+  Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde,
+    Her name was called so,
+  To whom our queene, dame Ellinor,
+    Was known a deadlye foe.
+
+  The king therefore, for her defence,
+    Against the furious queene,
+  At Woodstocke builded such a bower,
+    The like was never scene.
+
+  Most curiously that bower was built
+    Of stone and timber strong,
+  An hundred and fifty doors
+   Did to this bower belong:
+
+  And they so cunninglye contriv'd
+    With turnings round about,
+  That none but with a clue of thread,
+    Could enter in or out.
+
+  And for his love and ladyes sake,
+    That was so faire and brighte,
+  The keeping of this bower he gave
+    Unto a valiant knighte.
+
+  But fortune, that doth often frowne
+    Where she before did smile,
+  The kinges delighte and ladyes so
+    Full soon shee did beguile:
+
+  For why, the kinges ungracious sonne,
+    Whom he did high advance,
+  Against his father raised warres
+    Within the realme of France.
+
+  But yet before our comelye king
+    The English land forsooke,
+  Of Rosamond, his lady faire,
+    His farewelle thus he tooke:
+
+  "My Rosamonde, my only Rose,
+    That pleasest best mine eye:
+  The fairest flower in all the worlde
+    To feed my fantasye:
+
+  The flower of mine affected heart,
+    Whose sweetness doth excelle:
+  My royal Rose, a thousand times
+    I bid thee nowe farwelle!
+
+  For I must leave my fairest flower,
+    My sweetest Rose, a space,
+  And cross the seas to famous France,
+    Proud rebelles to abase.
+
+  But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt
+    My coming shortlye see,
+  And in my heart, when hence I am,
+    Ile beare my Rose with mee."
+
+  When Rosamond, that ladye brighte,
+    Did heare the king saye soe,
+  The sorrowe of her grieved heart
+    Her outward lookes did showe;
+
+  And from her cleare and crystall eyes
+    The teares gusht out apace,
+  Which like the silver-pearled dewe
+    Ranne downe her comely face.
+
+  Her lippes, erst like the corall redde,
+    Did waxe both wan and pale,
+  And for the sorrow she conceivde
+    Her vitall spirits faile;
+
+  And falling down all in a swoone
+    Before King Henryes face,
+  Full oft he in his princelye armes
+    Her bodye did embrace:
+
+  And twentye times, with watery eyes,
+    He kist her tender cheeke,
+  Untill he had revivde againe
+    Her senses milde and meeke.
+
+  Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?
+    The king did often say.
+  Because, quoth shee, to bloodye warres
+    My lord must part awaye.
+
+  But since your grace on forrayne coastes
+    Amonge your foes unkinde
+  Must goe to hazard life and limbe,
+    Why should I staye behinde?
+
+  Nay rather, let me, like a page,
+    Your sworde and target beare;
+  That on my breast the blowes may lighte,
+    Which would offend you there.
+
+  Or lett mee, in your royal tent,
+    Prepare your bed at nighte,
+  And with sweete baths refresh your grace,
+    Ar your returne from fighte.
+
+  So I your presence may enjoye
+    No toil I will refuse;
+  But wanting you, my life is death;
+    Nay, death Ild rather chuse!
+
+  "Content thy self, my dearest love;
+    Thy rest at home shall bee
+  In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle;
+    For travell fits not thee.
+
+  Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres;
+    Soft peace their sexe delights;
+  Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers;
+    Gay feastes, not cruell fights.'
+
+  My Rose shall safely here abide,
+    With musicke passe the daye;
+  Whilst I, amonge the piercing pikes,
+    My foes seeke far awaye.
+
+  My Rose shall shine in pearle, and golde,
+    Whilst Ime in armour dighte;
+  Gay galliards here my love shall dance,
+    Whilst I my foes goe fighte.
+
+  And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste
+    To bee my loves defence;
+  Be careful of my gallant Rose
+    When I am parted hence."
+
+  And therewithall he fetcht a sigh,
+    As though his heart would breake:
+  And Rosamonde, for very grief,
+    Not one plaine word could speake.
+
+  And at their parting well they mighte
+    In heart be grieved sore:
+  After that daye faire Rosamonde
+    The king did see no more.
+
+  For when his grace had past the seas,
+    And into France was gone;
+  With envious heart, Queene Ellinor,
+    To Woodstocke came anone.
+
+  And forth she calls this trustye knighte,
+    In an unhappy houre;
+  Who with his clue of twined thread,
+    Came from this famous bower.
+
+  And when that they had wounded him,
+    The queene this thread did gette,
+  And went where Ladye Rosamonde
+    Was like an angell sette.
+
+  But when the queene with stedfast eye
+    Beheld her beauteous face,
+  She was amazed in her minde
+    At her exceeding grace.
+
+  Cast off from thee those robes, she said,
+    That riche and costlye bee;
+  And drinke thou up this deadlye draught,
+    Which I have brought to thee.
+
+  Then presentlye upon her knees
+    Sweet Rosamonde did fall;
+  And pardon of the queene she crav'd
+    For her offences all.
+
+  "Take pitty on my youthfull yeares,"
+    Faire Rosamonde did crye;
+  "And lett mee not with poison stronge
+    Enforced bee to dye.
+
+  I will renounce my sinfull life,
+    And in some cloyster bide;
+  Or else be banisht, if you please,
+    To range the world soe wide.
+
+  And for the fault which I have done,
+    Though I was forc'd thereto,
+  Preserve my life, and punish mee
+    As you thinke meet to doe."
+
+  And with these words, her lillie handes
+    She wrunge full often there;
+  And downe along her lovely face
+    Did trickle many a teare.
+
+  But nothing could this furious queene
+    Therewith appeased bee;
+  The cup of deadlye poyson stronge,
+    As she knelt on her knee,
+
+  Shee gave this comelye dame to drinke;
+    Who tooke it in her hand,
+  And from her bended knee arose,
+    And on her feet did stand:
+
+  And casting up her eyes to heaven,
+    She did for mercye calle;
+  And drinking up the poison stronge,
+    Her life she lost withalle.
+
+  And when that death through everye limbe
+    Had showde its greatest spite,
+  Her chiefest foes did plaine confesse
+    Shee was a glorious wight.
+
+  Her body then they did entomb,
+    When life was fled away,
+  At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne,
+    As may be scene this day.
+
+
+
+
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+
+
+  When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre,
+    And leaves both large and longe,
+  Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrest
+    To heare the small birdes songe.
+
+  The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
+    Sitting upon the spraye,
+  Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,
+    In the greenwood where he lay.
+
+  Now by my faye, sayd jollye Robin,
+    A sweaven I had this night;
+  I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen,
+    That fast with me can fight.
+
+  Methought they did mee beate and binde,
+    And tooke my bow mee froe;
+  If I be Robin alive in this lande,
+    He be wroken on them towe.
+
+  Sweavens are swift, Master, quoth John,
+    As the wind that blowes ore a hill;
+  For if itt be never so loude this night,
+    To-morrow itt may be still.
+
+  Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
+    And John shall goe with mee,
+  For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen,
+    In greenwood where the bee.
+
+  Then the cast on their gownes of grene,
+    And tooke theyr bowes each one;
+  And they away to the greene forrest
+    A shooting forth are gone;
+
+  Until they came to the merry greenwood,
+    Where they had gladdest bee,
+  There were the ware of a wight yeoman,
+    His body leaned to a tree.
+
+  A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
+    Of manye a man the bane;
+  And he was clad in his capull hyde
+    Topp and tayll and mayne.
+
+  Stand you still, master, quoth Litle John,
+    Under this tree so grene,
+  And I will go to yond wight yeoman
+    To know what he doth meane.
+
+  Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,
+    And that I farley finde:
+  How offt send I my men beffore
+    And tarry my selfe behinde?
+
+  It is no cunning a knave to ken,
+    And a man but heare him speake;
+  And itt were not for bursting of my bowe.
+    John, I thy head wold breake.
+
+  As often wordes they breeden bale,
+    So they parted Robin and John;
+  And John is gone to Barnesdale;
+    The gates he knoweth eche one.
+
+  But when he came to Barnesdale,
+    Great heavinesse there hee hadd,
+  For he found tow of his owne fellòwes
+    Were slaine both in a slade.
+
+  And Scarlette he was flyinge a-foote
+    Fast over stocke and stone,
+  For the sheriffe with seven score men
+    Fast after him is gone.
+
+  One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John,
+    With Christ his might and mayne:
+  Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast,
+    To stopp he shall be fayne.
+
+  Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,
+    And fetteled him to shoote:
+  The bow was made of a tender boughe,
+    And fell down to his foote.
+
+  Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
+    That ere thou grew on a tree;
+  For now this day thou art my bale,
+    My boote when thou shold bee.
+
+  His shoote it was but loosely shott,
+    Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
+  For itt mett one of the sheriffes men,
+    Good William a Trent was slaine.
+
+  It had bene better of William a Trent
+    To have bene abed with sorrowe,
+  Than to be that day in the green wood slade
+    To meet with Little Johns arrowe.
+
+  But as it is said, when men be mett
+    Fyve can doe more than three,
+  The sheriffe hath taken little John,
+    And bound him fast to a tree.
+
+  Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,
+    And hanged hye on a hill.
+  But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John,
+    If itt be Christ his will.
+
+  Let us leave talking of Little John,
+    And thinke of Robin Hood,
+  How he is gone to the wight yeoman,
+    Where under the leaves he stood.
+
+  Good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre,
+    Good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he:
+   Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande
+    A good archere thou sholdst bee.
+
+  I am wilfull of my waye, quo' the yeman,
+    And of my morning tyde.
+  He lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin;
+    Good fellow, He be thy guide.
+
+  I seeke an outlàwe, the straunger sayd,
+    Men call him Robin Hood;
+  Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe,
+    Than fortye pound so good.
+
+  Now come with me, thou wighty yeman,
+    And Robin thou soone shalt see:
+  But first let us some pastime find
+    Under the greenwood tree.
+
+  First let us some masterye make
+    Among the woods so even,
+  Wee may chance to meet with Robin Hood
+    Here att some unsett steven.
+
+  They cut them downe two summer shroggs,
+    That grew both under a breere,
+  And sett them threescore rood in twaine
+    To shoot the prickes y-fere:
+
+  Lead on, good fellowe, quoth Robin Hood,
+    Lead on, I doe bidd thee.
+  Nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,
+    My leader thou shalt bee.
+
+  The first time Robin shot at the pricke,
+    He mist but an inch it froe:
+  The yeoman he was an archer good,
+    But he cold never shoote soe.
+
+  The second shoote had the wightye yeman,
+    He shote within the garlànde:
+  But Robin he shott far better than hee,
+    For he clave the good pricke wande.
+
+  A blessing upon thy heart, he sayd;
+    Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode;
+  For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,
+    Thou wert better then Robin Hoode.
+
+  Now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he,
+    Under the leaves of lyne.
+  Nay by my faith, quoth bolde Robin,
+    Till thou have told me thine.
+
+  I dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee,
+    And Robin to take Ime sworne;
+  And when I am called by my right name
+    I am Guye of good Gisborne.
+
+  My dwelling is in this wood, sayes Robin,
+    By thee I set right nought:
+  I am Robin Hood of Barnèsdale,
+    Whom thou so long hast sought.
+
+  He that hath neither beene kithe nor kin,
+    Might have scene a full fayre sight,
+  To see how together these yeomen went
+    With blades both browne and bright.
+
+  To see how these yeomen together they fought
+    Two howres of a summers day:
+  Yet neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy
+    Them fettled to flye away.
+
+  Robin was reachles on a roote,
+    And stumbled at that tyde;
+  And Guy was quick and nimble with-all,
+    And hitt him ore the left side.
+
+  Ah deere Lady, sayd Robin Hood, 'thou
+    That art both mother and may,'
+  I think it was never mans destinye
+    To dye before his day.
+
+  Robin thought on our ladye deere,
+    And soone leapt up againe,
+  And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke,
+    And he Sir Guy hath slayne.
+
+  He took Sir Guys head by the hayre,
+    And sticked itt on his bowes end:
+  Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe,
+    Which thing must have an ende.
+
+  Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,
+    And nicked Sir Guy in the face,
+  That he was never on woman born,
+    Cold tell whose head it was.
+
+  Saies, Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guye,
+    And with me be not wrothe,
+  If thou have had the worst stroked at my hand,
+    Thou shalt have the better clothe.
+
+  Robin did off his gowne of greene,
+    And on Sir Guy did it throwe,
+  And hee put on that capull hyde,
+    That cladd him topp to toe.
+
+  The bowe, the arrowes, and litle home,
+    Now with me I will beare;
+  For I will away to Barnesdale,
+    To see how my men doe fare.
+
+  Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth.
+    And a loud blast in it did blow.
+  That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
+    As he leaned under a lowe.
+
+  Hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe,
+    I heare now tydings good,
+  For yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blowe,
+    And he hath slaine Robin Hoode.
+
+  Yonder I heare Sir Guyes home blowe,
+    Itt blowes soe well in tyde,
+  And yonder comes that wightye yeoman,
+    Cladd in his capull hyde.
+
+  Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy,
+    Aske what thou wilt of mee.
+  O I will none of thy gold, sayd Robin,
+    Nor I will none of thy fee:
+
+  But now I have slaine the master, he sayes,
+    Let me go strike the knave;
+  This is all the rewarde I aske;
+    Nor noe other will I have.
+
+  Thou art a madman, said the sheriffe,
+    Thou sholdest have had a knights fee:
+  But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,
+    Well granted it shale be.
+
+  When Litle John heard his master speake,
+    Well knewe he it was his steven:
+  Now shall I be looset, quoth Litle John,
+    With Christ his might in heaven.
+
+  Fast Robin hee hyed him to Litle John,
+    He thought to loose him belive;
+  The sheriffe and all his companye
+    Fast after him did drive.
+  Stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd Robin;
+    Why draw you mee soe neere?
+  Itt was never the use in our countrye,
+    Ones shrift another shold heere.
+
+  But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe,
+    And losed John hand and foote,
+  And gave him Sir Guyes bow into his hand,
+    And bade it be his boote.
+
+  Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand,
+    His boltes and arrowes eche one:
+  When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,
+    He fettled him to be gone.
+
+  Towards his house in Nottingham towne
+    He fled full fast away;
+  And soe did all his companye:
+    Not one behind wold stay.
+
+  But he cold neither runne soe fast,
+    Nor away soe fast cold ryde,
+  But Litle John with an arrowe soe broad
+    He shott him into the 'back'-syde.
+
+
+
+
+THE BOY & THE MANTLE
+
+[Illustration: Boy and Mantle]
+
+  In Carleile dwelt King Arthur,
+    A prince of passing might;
+  And there maintain'd his table round,
+    Beset with many a knight.
+
+  And there he kept his Christmas
+    With mirth and princely cheare,
+  When, lo! a straunge and cunning boy
+    Before him did appeare.
+
+  A kirtle and a mantle
+    This boy had him upon,
+  With brooches, rings, and owches,
+    Full daintily bedone.
+
+  He had a sarke of silk
+    About his middle meet;
+  And thus, with seemely curtesy,
+    He did King Arthur greet.
+
+  "God speed thee, brave King Arthur,
+    Thus feasting in thy bowre;
+  And Guenever thy goodly queen,
+    That fair and peerlesse flowre.
+
+  "Ye gallant lords, and lordings,
+    I wish you all take heed,
+  Lest, what ye deem a blooming rose,
+    Should prove a cankred weed."
+
+  Then straitway from his bosome
+    A little wand he drew;
+  And with it eke a mantle
+    Of wondrous shape and hew.
+
+  "Now have you here, King Arthur,
+   Have this here of mee,
+  And give unto thy comely queen,
+   All-shapen as you see.
+
+  "No wife it shall become,
+    That once hath been to blame."
+  Then every knight in Arthur's court
+    Slye glaunced at his dame.
+
+  And first came Lady Guenever,
+    The mantle she must trye.
+  This dame, she was new-fangled,
+    And of a roving eye.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    And all was with it cladde,
+  From top to toe it shiver'd down,
+    As tho' with sheers beshradde.
+
+  One while it was too long,
+    Another while too short,
+  And wrinkled on her shoulders
+    In most unseemly sort.
+
+  Now green, now red it seemed,
+    Then all of sable hue.
+  "Beshrew me," quoth King Arthur,
+    "I think thou beest not true."
+
+  Down she threw the mantle,
+    Ne longer would not stay;
+  But, storming like a fury,
+    To her chamber flung away.
+
+  She curst the whoreson weaver,
+    That had the mantle wrought:
+  And doubly curst the froward impe,
+    Who thither had it brought.
+
+  "I had rather live in desarts
+    Beneath the green-wood tree;
+  Than here, base king, among thy groomes,
+    The sport of them and thee."
+
+  Sir Kay call'd forth his lady,
+    And bade her to come near:
+  "Yet, dame, if thou be guilty,
+    I pray thee now forbear."
+
+  This lady, pertly gigling,
+    With forward step came on,
+  And boldly to the little boy
+    With fearless face is gone.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    With purpose for to wear;
+  It shrunk up to her shoulder,
+    And left her b--- side bare.
+
+  Then every merry knight,
+    That was in Arthur's court,
+  Gib'd, and laught, and flouted,
+    To see that pleasant sport.
+
+  Downe she threw the mantle,
+    No longer bold or gay,
+  But with a face all pale and wan,
+    To her chamber slunk away.
+
+  Then forth came an old knight,
+    A pattering o'er his creed;
+  And proffer'd to the little boy
+    Five nobles to his meed;
+
+  "And all the time of Christmass
+    Plumb-porridge shall be thine,
+  If thou wilt let my lady fair
+    Within the mantle shine."
+
+  A saint his lady seemed,
+    With step demure and slow,
+  And gravely to the mantle
+    With mincing pace doth goe.
+
+  When she the same had taken,
+    That was so fine and thin,
+  It shrivell'd all about her,
+    And show'd her dainty skin.
+
+  Ah! little did HER mincing,
+    Or HIS long prayers bestead;
+  She had no more hung on her,
+    Than a tassel and a thread.
+
+  Down she threwe the mantle,
+    With terror and dismay,
+  And, with a face of scarlet,
+    To her chamber hyed away.
+
+  Sir Cradock call'd his lady,
+    And bade her to come neare:
+  "Come, win this mantle, lady,
+    And do me credit here.
+
+  "Come, win this mantle, lady,
+    For now it shall be thine,
+  If thou hast never done amiss,
+    Sith first I made thee mine."
+
+  The lady, gently blushing,
+    With modest grace came on,
+  And now to trye the wondrous charm
+    Courageously is gone.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    And put it on her backe,
+  About the hem it seemed
+    To wrinkle and to cracke.
+
+  "Lye still," shee cryed, "O mantle!
+    And shame me not for nought,
+  I'll freely own whate'er amiss,
+    Or blameful I have wrought.
+
+  "Once I kist Sir Cradocke
+    Beneathe the green-wood tree:
+  Once I kist Sir Cradocke's mouth
+    Before he married mee."
+
+  When thus she had her shriven,
+    And her worst fault had told,
+  The mantle soon became her
+    Right comely as it shold.
+
+  Most rich and fair of colour,
+    Like gold it glittering shone:
+  And much the knights in Arthur's court
+    Admir'd her every one.
+
+  Then towards King Arthur's table
+    The boy he turn'd his eye:
+  Where stood a boar's head garnished
+    With bayes and rosemarye.
+
+  When thrice he o'er the boar's head
+    His little wand had drawne,
+  Quoth he, "There's never a cuckold's knife
+    Can carve this head of brawne."
+
+  Then some their whittles rubbed
+    On whetstone, and on hone:
+  Some threwe them under the table,
+    And swore that they had none.
+
+  Sir Cradock had a little knife,
+    Of steel and iron made;
+  And in an instant thro' the skull
+    He thrust the shining blade.
+
+  He thrust the shining blade
+    Full easily and fast;
+  And every knight in Arthur's court
+    A morsel had to taste.
+
+  The boy brought forth a horne,
+    All golden was the rim:
+  Saith he, "No cuckolde ever can
+    Set mouth unto the brim.
+
+  "No cuckold can this little horne
+    Lift fairly to his head;
+  But or on this, or that side,
+    He shall the liquor shed."
+
+  Some shed it on their shoulder,
+    Some shed it on their thigh;
+  And hee that could not hit his mouth,
+    Was sure to hit his eye.
+
+  Thus he, that was a cuckold,
+    Was known of every man:
+  But Cradock lifted easily,
+    And wan the golden can.
+
+  Thus boar's head, horn and mantle,
+    Were this fair couple's meed:
+  And all such constant lovers,
+    God send them well to speed.
+
+  Then down in rage came Guenever,
+    And thus could spightful say,
+  "Sir Cradock's wife most wrongfully
+    Hath borne the prize away.
+
+  "See yonder shameless woman,
+    That makes herselfe so clean:
+  Yet from her pillow taken
+    Thrice five gallants have been.
+
+  "Priests, clarkes, and wedded men,
+    Have her lewd pillow prest:
+  Yet she the wonderous prize forsooth
+    Must beare from all the rest."
+
+  Then bespake the little boy,
+    Who had the same in hold:
+  "Chastize thy wife, King Arthur,
+    Of speech she is too bold:
+
+  "Of speech she is too bold,
+    Of carriage all too free;
+  Sir King, she hath within thy hall
+    A cuckold made of thee.
+
+  "All frolick light and wanton
+    She hath her carriage borne:
+  And given thee for a kingly crown
+    To wear a cuckold's horne."
+
+
+
+
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+
+PART THE FIRST
+
+
+  Lithe and listen, gentlemen,
+    To sing a song I will beginne:
+  It is of a lord of faire Scotland,
+    Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne.
+
+  His father was a right good lord,
+    His mother a lady of high degree;
+  But they, alas! were dead, him froe,
+    And he lov'd keeping companie.
+
+  To spend the daye with merry cheare,
+    To drinke and revell every night,
+  To card and dice from eve to morne,
+    It was, I ween, his hearts delighte.
+
+  To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare,
+    To alwaye spend and never spare,
+  I wott, an' it were the king himselfe,
+    Of gold and fee he mote be bare.
+
+  Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Linne
+    Till all his gold is gone and spent;
+  And he maun sell his landes so broad,
+    His house, and landes, and all his rent.
+
+  His father had a keen stewarde,
+    And John o' the Scales was called hee:
+  But John is become a gentel-man,
+    And John has gott both gold and fee.
+
+  Sayes, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne,
+    Let nought disturb thy merry cheere;
+  Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad,
+    Good store of gold Ile give thee heere,
+
+  My gold is gone, my money is spent;
+    My lande nowe take it unto thee:
+  Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales,
+    And thine for aye my lande shall bee.
+
+  Then John he did him to record draw,
+    And John he cast him a gods-pennie;
+  But for every pounde that John agreed,
+    The lande, I wis, was well worth three.
+
+  He told him the gold upon the borde,
+    He was right glad his land to winne;
+  The gold is thine, the land is mine,
+    And now Ile be the lord of Linne.
+
+  Thus he hath sold his land soe broad,
+    Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne,
+  All but a poore and lonesome lodge,
+    That stood far off in a lonely glenne.
+
+  For soe he to his father hight.
+    My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee,
+  Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad,
+    And thou wilt spend thy gold so free:
+
+  But sweare me nowe upon the roode,
+    That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend;
+  For when all the world doth frown on thee,
+    Thou there shalt find a faithful friend.
+
+  The heire of Linne is full of golde:
+    And come with me, my friends, sayd hee,
+  Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make,
+    And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee.
+
+  They ranted, drank, and merry made,
+    Till all his gold it waxed thinne;
+  And then his friendes they slunk away;
+    They left the unthrifty heire of Linne.
+
+  He had never a penny in his purse,
+    Never a penny left but three,
+  And one was brass, another was lead,
+    And another it was white money.
+
+  Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    Nowe well-aday, and woe is mee,
+  For when I was the lord of Linne,
+    I never wanted gold nor fee.
+
+  But many a trustye friend have I,
+    And why shold I feel dole or care?
+  Ile borrow of them all by turnes,
+    Soe need I not be never bare.
+
+  But one, I wis, was not at home;
+    Another had payd his gold away;
+  Another call'd him thriftless loone,
+    And bade him sharpely wend his way.
+
+  Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    Now well-aday, and woe is me;
+  For when I had my landes so broad,
+    On me they liv'd right merrilee.
+
+  To beg my bread from door to door
+    I wis, it were a brenning shame:
+  To rob and steale it were a sinne:
+    To worke my limbs I cannot frame.
+
+  Now Ile away to lonesome lodge,
+    For there my father bade me wend;
+  When all the world should frown on mee
+    I there shold find a trusty friend.
+
+
+PART THE SECOND
+
+
+  Away then hyed the heire of Linne
+    Oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne,
+  Untill he came to lonesome lodge,
+    That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne.
+
+  He looked up, he looked downe,
+    In hope some comfort for to winne:
+  But bare and lothly were the walles.
+    Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne.
+
+  The little windowe dim and darke
+    Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe;
+  No shimmering sunn here ever shone;
+    No halesome breeze here ever blew.
+
+  No chair, ne table he mote spye,
+    No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed,
+  Nought save a rope with renning noose,
+    That dangling hung up o'er his head.
+
+  And over it in broad letters,
+    These words were written so plain to see:
+  "Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all,
+    And brought thyselfe to penurie?
+
+  "All this my boding mind misgave,
+    I therefore left this trusty friend:
+  Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace,
+    And all thy shame and sorrows end."
+
+  Sorely shent wi' this rebuke,
+    Sorely shent was the heire of Linne,
+  His heart, I wis, was near to brast     With guilt and sorrowe, shame
+and sinne.
+
+  Never a word spake the heire of Linne,
+    Never a word he spake but three:
+  "This is a trusty friend indeed,
+    And is right welcome unto mee."
+
+  Then round his necke the corde he drewe,
+    And sprung aloft with his bodie:
+  When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine,
+    And to the ground came tumbling hee.
+
+  Astonyed lay the heire of Linne,
+    Ne knewe if he were live or dead:
+  At length he looked, and saw a bille,
+    And in it a key of gold so redd.
+
+  He took the bill, and lookt it on,
+    Strait good comfort found he there:
+  It told him of a hole in the wall,
+    In which there stood three chests in-fere.
+
+  Two were full of the beaten golde,
+   The third was full of white money;
+  And over them in broad letters
+   These words were written so plaine to see:
+
+  "Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere;
+   Amend thy life and follies past;
+  For but thou amend thee of thy life,
+   That rope must be thy end at last."
+
+  And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne;
+   And let it bee, but if I amend:
+  For here I will make mine avow,
+   This reade shall guide me to the end.
+
+  Away then went with a merry cheare,
+   Away then went the heire of Linne;
+  I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne,
+   Till John o' the Scales house he did winne.
+
+  And when he came to John o' the Scales,
+   Upp at the speere then looked hee;
+  There sate three lords upon a rowe,
+   Were drinking of the wine so free.
+
+  And John himself sate at the bord-head,
+   Because now lord of Linne was hee.
+  I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales,
+   One forty pence for to lend mee.
+
+  Away, away, thou thriftless loone;
+    Away, away, this may not bee:
+  For Christs curse on my head, he sayd,
+    If ever I trust thee one pennìe.
+
+  Then bespake the heire of Linne,
+    To John o' the Scales wife then spake he:
+  Madame, some almes on me bestowe,
+    I pray for sweet Saint Charitìe.
+
+  Away, away, thou thriftless loone,
+    I swear thou gettest no almes of mee;
+  For if we shold hang any losel heere,
+    The first we wold begin with thee.
+
+  Then bespake a good fellòwe,
+    Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord
+  Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne;
+    Some time thou wast a well good lord;
+
+  Some time a good fellow thou hast been,
+    And sparedst not thy gold nor fee;
+  Therefore He lend thee forty pence,
+    And other forty if need bee.
+
+  And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales,
+    To let him sit in thy companie:
+  For well I wot thou hadst his land,
+    And a good bargain it was to thee.
+
+  Up then spake him John o' the Scales,
+    All wood he answer'd him againe:
+  Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd,
+    But I did lose by that bargàine.
+
+  And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne,
+    Before these lords so faire and free,
+  Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape,
+    By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.
+
+  I draw you to record, lords, he said.
+    With that he cast him a gods pennie:
+  Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    And here, good John, is thy monèy.
+
+  And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold,
+    And layd them down upon the bord:
+  All woe begone was John o' the Scales,
+    Soe shent he cold say never a word.
+
+  He told him forth the good red gold,
+    He told it forth with mickle dinne.
+  The gold is thine, the land is mine,
+    And now Ime againe the lord of Linne.
+
+  Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellòwe,
+    Forty pence thou didst lend me:
+  Now I am againe the lord of Linne,
+    And forty pounds I will give thee.
+
+  He make the keeper of my forrest,
+    Both of the wild deere and the tame;
+  For but I reward thy bounteous heart,
+    I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.
+
+  Now welladay! sayth Joan o' the Scales:
+    Now welladay! and woe is my life!
+  Yesterday I was lady of Linne,
+    Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife.
+
+  Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne;
+    Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee:
+  Christs curse light on me, if ever again
+    I bring my lands in jeopardy.
+
+
+
+
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+
+
+  I Read that once in Affrica
+    A princely wight did raine,
+  Who had to name Cophetua,
+    As poets they did faine:
+  From natures lawes he did decline,
+  For sure he was not of my mind.
+  He cared not for women-kinde,
+    But did them all disdaine.
+  But, marke, what hapened on a day,
+  As he out of his window lay,
+  He saw a beggar all in gray,
+    The which did cause his paine.
+
+  The blinded boy, that shootes so trim,
+    From heaven downe did hie;
+  He drew a dart and shot at him,
+    In place where he did lye:
+  Which soone did pierse him to the quicke.
+  And when he felt the arrow pricke,
+  Which in his tender heart did sticke,
+    He looketh as he would dye.
+  What sudden chance is this, quoth he,
+  That I to love must subject be,
+  Which never thereto would agree,
+    But still did it defie?
+
+  Then from the window he did come,
+    And laid him on his bed,
+  A thousand heapes of care did runne
+    Within his troubled head:
+  For now he meanes to crave her love,
+  And now he seekes which way to proove
+  How he his fancie might remoove,
+    And not this beggar wed.
+  But Cupid had him so in snare,
+  That this poor begger must prepare
+  A salve to cure him of his care,
+    Or els he would be dead.
+
+  And, as he musing thus did lye,
+    He thought for to devise
+  How he might have her companye,
+    That so did 'maze his eyes.
+  In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life;
+  For surely thou shalt be my wife,
+  Or else this hand with bloody knife
+    The Gods shall sure suffice.
+  Then from his bed he soon arose,
+  And to his pallace gate he goes;
+  Full little then this begger knowes
+    When she the king espies.
+
+  The Gods preserve your majesty,
+    The beggers all gan cry:
+  Vouchsafe to give your charity
+    Our childrens food to buy.
+  The king to them his pursse did cast,
+    And they to part it made great haste;
+  This silly woman was the last
+    That after them did hye.
+  The king he cal'd her back againe,
+  And unto her he gave his chaine;
+  And said, With us you shal remaine
+    Till such time as we dye:
+
+  For thou, quoth he, shalt be my wife,
+    And honoured for my queene;
+  With thee I meane to lead my life,
+    As shortly shall be seene:
+  Our wedding shall appointed be,
+  And every thing in its degree:
+  Come on, quoth he, and follow me,
+    Thou shalt go shift thee cleane.
+  What is thy name, faire maid? quoth he.
+  Penelophon, O king, quoth she;
+  With that she made a lowe courtsey;
+    A trim one as I weene.
+
+  Thus hand in hand along they walke
+    Unto the king's pallace:
+  The king with curteous comly talke
+    This beggar doth imbrace:
+  The begger blusheth scarlet red,
+  And straight againe as pale as lead,
+  But not a word at all she said,
+    She was in such amaze.
+  At last she spake with trembling voyce,
+  And said, O king, I doe rejoyce
+  That you wil take me from your choyce,
+    And my degree's so base.
+
+  And when the wedding day was come,
+    The king commanded strait
+  The noblemen both all and some
+    Upon the queene to wait.
+  And she behaved herself that day,
+  As if she had never walkt the way;
+  She had forgot her gown of gray,
+    Which she did weare of late.
+  The proverbe old is come to passe,
+  The priest, when he begins his masse,
+  Forgets that ever clerke he was;
+    He knowth not his estate.
+
+  Here you may read, Cophetua,
+    Though long time fancie-fed,
+  Compelled by the blinded boy
+    The begger for to wed:
+  He that did lovers lookes disdaine,
+  To do the same was glad and faine,
+  Or else he would himselfe have slaine,
+  In storie, as we read.
+    Disdaine no whit, O lady deere,
+    But pitty now thy servant heere,
+    Least that it hap to thee this yeare,
+      As to that king it did.
+
+  And thus they led a quiet life
+    Duringe their princely raigne;
+  And in a tombe were buried both,
+    As writers sheweth plaine.
+  The lords they tooke it grievously,
+  The ladies tooke it heavily,
+  The commons cryed pitiously,
+    Their death to them was paine,
+    Their fame did sound so passingly,
+    That it did pierce the starry sky,
+    And throughout all the world did flye
+      To every princes realme.
+
+[Illustration:  Decorative ]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+
+
+  'When Flora with her fragrant flowers
+    Bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye,
+  And Neptune with his daintye showers
+    Came to present the monthe of Maye;'
+  King Henrye rode to take the ayre,
+    Over the river of Thames past hee;
+  When eighty merchants of London came,
+    And downe they knelt upon their knee.
+
+  "O yee are welcome, rich merchants;
+    Good saylors, welcome unto mee."
+  They swore by the rood, they were saylors good,
+    But rich merchànts they cold not bee:
+  "To France nor Flanders dare we pass:
+    Nor Bourdeaux voyage dare we fare;
+  And all for a rover that lyes on the seas,
+    Who robbs us of our merchant ware."
+
+  King Henrye frowned, and turned him rounde,
+    And swore by the Lord, that was mickle of might,
+  "I thought he had not beene in the world,
+    Durst have wrought England such unright."
+  The merchants sighed, and said, alas!
+    And thus they did their answer frame,
+  He is a proud Scott, that robbs on the seas,
+    And Sir Andrewe Barton is his name.
+
+  The king lookt over his left shoulder,
+    And an angrye look then looked hee:
+  "Have I never a lorde in all my realme,
+    Will feitch yond tray tor unto me?"
+  Yea, that dare I; Lord Howard sayes;
+    Yea, that dare I with heart and hand;
+  If it please your grace to give me leave,
+    Myselfe wil be the only man.
+
+  Thou art but yong; the kyng replyed:
+    Yond Scott hath numbered manye a yeare.
+  "Trust me, my liege, lie make him quail,
+    Or before my prince I will never appeare."
+  Then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have,
+    And chuse them over my realme so free;
+  Besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes,
+    To guide the great shipp on the sea.
+
+  The first man, that Lord Howard chose,
+    Was the ablest gunner in all the realm,
+  Thoughe he was three score yeeres and ten;
+    Good Peter Simon was his name.
+  Peter, sais hee, I must to the sea,
+    To bring home a traytor live or dead:
+  Before all others I have chosen thee;
+    Of a hundred gunners to be the head.
+
+  If you, my lord, have chosen mee
+    Of a hundred gunners to be the head,
+  Then hang me up on your maine-mast tree,
+    If I misse my marke one shilling bread.
+  My lord then chose a boweman rare,
+    "Whose active hands had gained fame."
+  In Yorkshire was this gentleman borne,
+    And William Horseley was his name.
+
+  Horseley, said he, I must with speede
+    Go seeke a traytor on the sea,
+  And now of a hundred bowemen brave
+    To be the head I have chosen thee.
+  If you, quoth hee, have chosen mee
+    Of a hundred bowemen to be the head
+  On your main-mast He hanged bee,
+    If I miss twelvescore one penny bread.
+
+  With pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold,
+    This noble Howard is gone to the sea;
+  With a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare,
+    Out at Thames mouth sayled he.
+  And days he scant had sayled three,
+    Upon the 'voyage,' he tooke in hand,
+  But there he mett with a noble shipp,
+    And stoutely made itt stay and stand.
+
+  Thou must tell me, Lord Howard said,
+    Now who thou art, and what's thy name;
+  And shewe me where they dwelling is:
+    And whither bound, and whence thou came.
+  My name is Henry Hunt, quoth hee
+    With a heavye heart, and a carefull mind;
+  I and my shipp doe both belong
+    To the Newcastle, that stands upon Tyne.
+
+  Hast thou not heard, nowe, Henrye Hunt,
+    As thou hast sayled by daye and by night,
+  Of a Scottish rover on the seas;
+    Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight!
+  Then ever he sighed, and said alas!
+    With a grieved mind, and well away!
+  But over-well I knowe that wight,
+    I was his prisoner yesterday.
+
+  As I was sayling uppon the sea,
+    A Burdeaux voyage for to fare;
+  To his hach-borde he clasped me,
+    And robd me of all my merchant ware:
+  And mickle debts, God wot, I owe,
+    And every man will have his owne;
+  And I am nowe to London bounde,
+    Of our gracious king to beg a boone.
+
+  That shall not need, Lord Howard sais;
+    Lett me but once that robber see,
+  For every penny tane thee froe
+    It shall be doubled shillings three.
+  Nowe God forefend, the merchant said,
+    That you should seek soe far amisse!
+  God keepe you out of that traitors hands!
+    Full litle ye wott what a man hee is.
+
+  Hee is brasse within, and steele without,
+    With beames on his topcastle stronge;
+  And eighteen pieces of ordinance
+    He carries on each side along:
+  And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight,
+    St. Andrewes crosse that is his guide;
+  His pinnace beareth ninescore men,
+    And fifteen canons on each side.
+
+  Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one;
+    I sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall;
+  He wold overcome them everye one,
+    If once his beames they doe downe fall.
+  This is cold comfort, sais my lord,
+    To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea:
+  Yet He bring him and his ship to shore,
+    Or to Scottland hee shall carrye mee.
+
+
+  Then a noble gunner you must have,
+    And he must aim well with his ee,
+  And sinke his pinnace into the sea,
+    Or else hee never orecome will bee:
+  And if you chance his shipp to borde,
+    This counsel I must give withall,
+  Let no man to his topcastle goe
+    To strive to let his beams downe fall.
+
+
+  And seven pieces of ordinance,
+    I pray your honour lend to mee,
+  On each side of my shipp along,
+    And I will lead you on the sea.
+  A glasse He sett, that may be seene
+    Whether you sail by day or night;
+  And to-morrowe, I sweare, by nine of the clocke
+    You shall meet with Sir Andrewe Barton knight.
+
+
+  THE SECOND PART
+
+
+  The merchant sett my lorde a glasse
+    Soe well apparent in his sight,
+  And on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke,
+    He shewed him Sir Andrewe Barton knight.
+  His hachebord it was 'gilt' with gold,
+    Soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee:
+  Nowe by my faith, Lord Howarde sais,
+    This is a gallant sight to see.
+
+  Take in your ancyents, standards eke,
+    So close that no man may them see;
+  And put me forth a white willowe wand,
+    As merchants use to sayle the sea.
+  But they stirred neither top, nor mast;
+    Stoutly they past Sir Andrew by.
+  What English churles are yonder, he sayd,
+    That can soe little curtesye?
+
+  Now by the roode, three yeares and more
+    I have beene admirall over the sea;
+  And never an English nor Portingall
+    Without my leave can passe this way.
+  Then called he forth his stout pinnace;
+    "Fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee:
+  I sweare by the masse, yon English churles
+    Shall all hang att my maine-mast tree."
+
+  With that the pinnace itt shot off,
+    Full well Lord Howard might it ken;
+  For itt stroke down my lord's fore mast,
+    And killed fourteen of his men.
+  Come hither, Simon, sayes my lord,
+    Looke that thy word be true, thou said;
+  For at my maine-mast thou shalt hang,
+    If thou misse thy marke one shilling bread.
+
+  Simon was old, but his heart itt was bold;
+    His ordinance he laid right lowe;
+  He put in chaine full nine yardes long,
+    With other great shott lesse, and moe;
+  And he lette goe his great gunnes shott:
+    Soe well he settled itt with his ee,
+  The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe,
+    He see his pinnace sunke in the sea.
+
+  And when he saw his pinnace sunke,
+    Lord, how his heart with rage did swell!
+  "Nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon;
+    Ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell."
+  When my lord sawe Sir Andrewe loose,
+    Within his heart he was full faine:
+  "Now spread your ancyents, strike up your drummes,
+    Sound all your trumpetts out amaine."
+
+  Fight on, my men, Sir Andrewe sais,
+    Weale howsoever this geere will sway;
+  Itt is my Lord Admirall of England,
+    Is come to seeke mee on the sea.
+  Simon had a sonne, who shott right well,
+    That did Sir Andrewe mickle scare;
+  In att his decke he gave a shott,
+    Killed threescore of his men of warre.
+
+  Then Henrye Hunt with rigour hott
+    Came bravely on the other side,
+  Soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree,
+    And killed fourscore men beside.
+  Nowe, out alas! Sir Andrewe cryed,
+    What may a man now thinke, or say?
+  Yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee,
+    He was my prisoner yesterday.
+
+  Come hither to me, thou Gordon good,
+    That aye wast readye att my call:
+  I will give thee three hundred markes,
+    If thou wilt let my beames downe fall.
+  Lord Howard hee then calld in haste,
+    "Horseley see thou be true in stead;
+  For thou shalt at the maine-mast hang,
+    If thou misse twelvescore one penny bread."
+
+  Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree,
+    He swarved it with might and maine;
+  But Horseley with a bearing arrowe,
+    Stroke the Gordon through the braine;
+  And he fell unto the haches again,
+    And sore his deadlye wounde did bleed:
+  Then word went through Sir Andrews men,
+    How that the Gordon hee was dead.
+
+  Come hither to mee, James Hambilton,
+    Thou art my only sisters sonne,
+  If thou wilt let my beames downe fall
+    Six hundred nobles thou hast wonne.
+  With that he swarved the maine-mast tree,
+    He swarved it with nimble art;
+  But Horseley with a broad arròwe
+    Pierced the Hambilton thorough the heart:
+
+  And downe he fell upon the deck,
+    That with his blood did streame amaine:
+  Then every Scott cryed, Well-away!
+    Alas! a comelye youth is slaine.
+  All woe begone was Sir Andrew then,
+    With griefe and rage his heart did swell:
+  "Go fetch me forth my armour of proofe,
+    For I will to the topcastle mysell."
+
+  "Goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe;
+    That gilded is with gold soe cleare:
+  God be with my brother John of Barton!
+    Against the Portingalls hee it ware;
+  And when he had on this armour of proofe,
+    He was a gallant sight to see:
+  Ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight,
+    My deere brother, could cope with thee."
+
+  Come hither Horseley, sayes my lord,
+    And looke your shaft that itt goe right,
+  Shoot a good shoote in time of need,
+    And for it thou shalt be made a knight.
+  Ile shoot my best, quoth Horseley then,
+    Your honour shall see, with might and maine;
+  But if I were hanged at your maine-mast,
+    I have now left but arrowes twaine.
+
+  Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree,
+   With right good will he swarved then:
+  Upon his breast did Horseley hitt,
+    But the arrow bounded back agen.
+  Then Horseley spyed a privye place
+    With a perfect eye in a secrette part;
+  Under the spole of his right arme
+    He smote Sir Andrew to the heart.
+
+  "Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes,
+    "A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine;
+  He but lye downe and bleede a while,
+    And then He rise and fight againe.
+  Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes,
+    "And never flinch before the foe;
+  And stand fast by St. Andrewes crosse
+    Until you heare my whistle blowe."
+
+  They never heard his whistle blow--
+    Which made their hearts waxe sore adread:
+  Then Horseley sayd, Aboard, my lord,
+    For well I wott Sir Andrew's dead.
+  They boarded then his noble shipp,
+    They boarded it with might and maine;
+  Eighteen score Scots alive they found,
+    The rest were either maimed or slaine.
+
+  Lord Howard tooke a sword in hand,
+    And off he smote Sir Andrewes head,
+  "I must have left England many a daye,
+    If thou wert alive as thou art dead."
+  He caused his body to be cast
+    Over the hatchboard into the sea,
+  And about his middle three hundred crownes:
+    "Wherever thou land this will bury thee."
+
+  Thus from the warres Lord Howard came,
+    And backe he sayled ore the maine,
+  With mickle joy and triumphing
+    Into Thames mouth he came againe.
+  Lord Howard then a letter wrote,
+    And sealed it with scale and ring;
+  "Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace,
+    As never did subject to a king:
+
+  "Sir Andrewes shipp I bring with mee;
+    A braver shipp was never none:
+  Nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr,
+    Before in England was but one."
+  King Henryes grace with royall cheere
+    Welcomed the noble Howard home,
+  And where, said he, is this rover stout,
+   That I myselfe may give the doome?
+
+  "The rover, he is safe, my liege,
+    Full many a fadom in the sea;
+  If he were alive as he is dead,
+    I must have left England many a day:
+  And your grace may thank four men i' the ship
+    For the victory wee have wonne,
+  These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt,
+    And Peter Simon, and his sonne."
+
+  To Henry Hunt, the king then sayd,
+    In lieu of what was from thee tane,
+  A noble a day now thou shalt have,
+    Sir Andrewes jewels and his chayne.
+  And Horseley thou shalt be a knight,
+    And lands and livings shalt have store;
+  Howard shall be erle Surrye hight,
+    As Howards erst have beene before.
+
+  Nowe, Peter Simon, thou art old,
+    I will maintaine thee and thy sonne:
+  And the men shall have five hundred markes
+    For the good service they have done.
+  Then in came the queene with ladyes fair
+    To see Sir Andrewe Barton knight:
+  They weend that hee were brought on shore,
+    And thought to have seen a gallant sight.
+
+  But when they see his deadlye face,
+    And eyes soe hollow in his head,
+  I wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes,
+    This man were alive as hee is dead:
+  Yett for the manfull part hee playd,
+    Which fought soe well with heart and hand,
+  His men shall have twelvepence a day,
+    Till they come to my brother kings high land.
+
+
+
+
+MAY COLLIN
+
+
+  May Collin ...
+    ... was her father's heir,
+  And she fell in love with a false priest,
+    And she rued it ever mair.
+
+  He followd her butt, he followd her benn,
+    He followd her through the hall,
+  Till she had neither tongue nor teeth
+    Nor lips to say him naw.
+
+  "We'll take the steed out where he is,
+    The gold where eer it be,
+  And we'll away to some unco land,
+    And married we shall be."
+
+  They had not riden a mile, a mile,
+    A mile but barely three,
+  Till they came to a rank river,
+    Was raging like the sea.
+
+  "Light off, light off now, May Collin,
+    It's here that you must die;
+  Here I have drownd seven king's daughters,
+    The eight now you must be.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your gown that's of the green;
+  For it's oer good and oer costly
+    To rot in the sea-stream.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your coat that's of the black;
+  For it's oer good and oer costly
+    To rot in the sea-wreck.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your stays that are well laced;
+  For thei'r oer good and costly
+    In the sea's ground to waste.
+
+  "Cast [off, cast off now, May Collin,]
+    Your sark that's of the holland;
+  For [it's oer good and oer costly]
+    To rot in the sea-bottom."
+
+  "Turn you about now, falsh Mess John,
+    To the green leaf of the tree;
+  It does not fit a mansworn man
+    A naked woman to see."
+
+  He turnd him quickly round about,
+    To the green leaf of the tree;
+  She took him hastly in her arms
+    And flung him in the sea.
+
+  "Now lye you there, you falsh Mess John,
+    My mallasin go with thee!
+  You thought to drown me naked and bare,
+    But take your cloaths with thee,
+  And if there be seven king's daughters there
+    Bear you them company"
+
+  She lap on her milk steed
+    And fast she bent the way,
+  And she was at her father's yate
+    Three long hours or day.
+
+  Up and speaks the wylie parrot,
+    So wylily and slee:
+  "Where is the man now, May Collin,
+    That gaed away wie thee?"
+
+  "Hold your tongue, my wylie parrot,
+    And tell no tales of me,
+  And where I gave a pickle befor
+    It's now I'll give you three."
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+
+
+PART THE FIRST
+
+
+  Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight,
+  He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright;
+  And many a gallant brave suiter had shee,
+  For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee.
+
+  And though shee was of favour most faire,
+  Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre,
+  Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee,
+  Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee.
+
+  Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say,
+  Good father, and mother, let me goe away
+  To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee.
+  This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee.
+
+  Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright,
+  All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night
+  From father and mother alone parted shee;
+  Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee.
+
+  Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow;
+  Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe:
+  With teares shee lamented her hard destinie,
+  So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Shee kept on her journey untill it was day,
+  And went unto Rumford along the hye way;
+  Where at the Queenes armes entertained was shee;
+  Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Shee had not beene there a month to an end,
+  But master and mistress and all was her friend:
+  And every brave gallant, that once did her see,
+  Was straight-way enamoured of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold,
+  And in their songs daylye her love was extold;
+  Her beawtye was blazed in every degree;
+  Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee.
+
+  The young men of Rumford in her had their joy;
+  Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye;
+  And at her commandment still wold they bee;
+  Soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Foure suitors att once unto her did goe;
+  They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe;
+  I wold not wish gentles to marry with mee.
+  Yett ever they honored prettye Bessee.
+
+  The first of them was a gallant young knight,
+  And he came unto her disguisde in the night;
+  The second a gentleman of good degree,
+  Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee.
+
+  A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small,
+  He was the third suiter, and proper withall:
+  Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee,
+  Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee.
+
+  And, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight,
+  Ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight;
+  My hart's so inthralled by thy bewtle,
+  That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee.
+
+  The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with mee,
+  As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee:
+  My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee;
+  And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee.
+
+  Let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say,
+  Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay;
+  My shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee,
+  And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.
+
+  Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus she did say,
+  My father and mother I meane to obey;
+  First gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee,
+  And you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee.
+
+  To every one this answer shee made,
+  Wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd,
+  This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree;  But where dwells thy father,
+my prettye Besse?
+
+  My father, shee said, is soone to be seene:
+  The seely blind beggar of Bednall-greene,
+  That daylye sits begging for charitie,
+  He is the good father of pretty Bessee.
+
+  His markes and his tokens are knowen very well;
+  He alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell:
+  A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee,
+  Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee:
+  Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee:
+  I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree,
+  And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee!
+
+  Why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse,
+  I waighe not true love by the waight of my pursse,
+  And bewtye is bewtye in every degree;
+  Then welcome unto me, my prettye Bessee.
+
+  With thee to thy father forthwith I will goe.
+  Nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe;
+  A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee,
+  Then take thy adew of pretty Bessee.
+
+  But soone after this, by breake of the day,
+  The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away.
+  The younge men of Rumford, as thicke might bee,
+  Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee.
+
+  As swifte as the winde to ryde they were scene,
+  Untill they came neare unto Bednall-greene;
+  And as the knight lighted most courteouslìe,
+  They all fought against him for pretty Bessee.
+
+  But rescew came speedilye over the plaine,
+  Or else the young knight for his love had been slaine.
+  This fray being ended, then straitway he see
+  His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee.
+
+  Then spake the blind beggar, Although I bee poore,
+  Yett rayle not against my child at my own doore:
+  Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle,
+  Yett will I dropp angells with you for my girle.
+
+  And then, if my gold may better her birthe,
+  And equall the gold that you lay on the earth,
+  Then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see
+  The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee.
+
+  But first you shall promise, and have it well knowne,
+  The gold that you drop shall all be your owne.
+  With that they replyed, Contented bee wee.
+  Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that an angell he cast on the ground,
+  And dropped in angels full three thousand pound;
+  And oftentime itt was proved most plaine,
+  For the gentlemens one the beggar droppt twayne:
+
+  Soe that the place, wherin they did sitt,
+  With gold it was covered every whitt.
+  The gentlemen then having dropt all their store,
+  Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more.
+
+  Thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright.
+  Then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight;
+  And heere, added hee, I will now throwe you downe
+  A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne.
+
+  The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene,
+  Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene:
+  And all those, that were her suitors before,
+  Their fleshe for very anger they tore.
+
+  Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight,
+  And then made a ladye in others despite:
+  A fairer ladye there never was seene,
+  Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall-greene.
+
+  But of their sumptuous marriage and feast,
+  What brave lords and knights thither were prest,
+  The SECOND FITT shall set forth to your sight
+  With marveilous pleasure, and wished delight.
+
+
+PART THE SECOND
+
+
+  Off a blind beggars daughter most bright,
+  That late was betrothed unto a younge knight;
+  All the discourse therof you did see;
+  But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Within a gorgeous palace most brave,
+  Adorned with all the cost they cold have,
+  This wedding was kept most sumptuouslìe,
+  And all for the credit of pretty Bessee.
+
+  All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete
+  Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete;
+  Partridge, and plover, and venison most free,
+  Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.
+
+  This marriage through England was spread by report,
+  Soe that a great number therto did resort
+  Of nobles and gentles in every degree;
+  And all for the fame of prettye Bessee.
+
+  To church then went this gallant younge knight;
+  His bride followed after, an angell most bright,
+  With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was scene
+  As went with sweete Bessy of Bednall-greene.
+
+  This marryage being solempnized then,
+  With musicke performed by the skilfullest men,
+  The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde,
+  Each one admiring the beautiful bryde.
+
+  Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done,
+  To talke, and to reason a number begunn:
+  They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright,
+  And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.
+
+  Then spake the nobles, "Much marveil have wee,
+  This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see."
+  My lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base,
+  He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.
+
+  "The prayse of a woman in question to bringe
+  Before her own face, were a flattering thinge;
+  But wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they,
+  "Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye."
+
+  They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke,
+  But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke;
+  A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee,
+  And now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee.
+
+  He had a daintye lute under his arme,
+  He touched the strings, which made such a charme,
+  Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee,
+  Ile sing you a song of pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that his lute he twanged straightway,
+  And thereon begann most sweetlye to play;
+  And after that lessons were playd two or three,
+  He strayn'd out this song most delicatelìe.
+
+  "A poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene,
+  Who for her fairenesse might well be a queene:
+  A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee,
+  And many one called her pretty Bessee.
+
+  "Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land,
+  But begged for a penny all day with his hand;
+  And yett to her marriage he gave thousands three,
+  And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.
+
+  "And if any one here her birth doe disdaine,
+  Her father is ready, with might and with maine,
+  To proove shee is come of noble degree:
+  Therfore never flout att prettye Bessee."
+
+  With that the lords and the companye round
+  With harty laughter were readye to swound;
+  Att last said the lords, Full well wee may see,
+  The bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee.
+
+  On this the bride all blushing did rise,
+  The pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes,
+  O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee,
+  That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee.
+
+  If this be thy father, the nobles did say,
+  Well may he be proud of this happy day;
+  Yett by his countenance well may wee see,
+  His birth and his fortune did never agree:
+
+  And therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray,
+  (and looke that the truth thou to us doe say)
+  Thy birth and thy parentage, whatt itt may bee;
+  For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee.
+
+  "Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one,
+  One song more to sing, and then I have done;
+  And if that itt may not winn good report,
+  Then doe not give me a GROAT for my sport.
+
+  "Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shal bee;
+  Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee,
+  Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase,
+  Now loste and forgotten are hee and his race.
+
+  "When the barons in armes did King Henrye oppose,
+  Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose;
+  A leader of courage undaunted was hee,
+  And oft-times he made their enemyes flee.
+
+  "At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine
+  The barons were routed, and Montford was slaine;
+  Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee,
+  Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee!
+
+  "Along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde,
+  His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his side,
+  Was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight!
+  A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight.
+
+  "Among the dead bodyes all lifeless he laye,
+  Till evening drewe on of the following daye,
+  When by a yong ladye discovered was hee;
+  And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee!
+
+  "A barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte
+  To search for her father, who fell in the fight,
+  And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he laye,
+  Was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye.
+
+  "In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine,
+  While he throughe the realme was beleeved to be slaine
+  At lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee,
+  And made him glad father of prettye Bessee.
+
+  "And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye,
+  We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye;
+  Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee:
+  All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee.
+
+  "And here have we lived in fortunes despite,
+  Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte:
+  Full forty winters thus have I beene
+  A silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene.
+
+  "And here, noble lordes, is ended the song
+  Of one, that once to your own ranke did belong:
+  And thus have you learned a secrette from mee,
+  That ne'er had been knowne, but for prettye Bessee."
+
+  Now when the faire companye everye one,
+  Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne,
+  They all were amazed, as well they might bee,
+  Both at the blinde beggar, and pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that the faire bride they all did embrace,
+  Saying, Sure thou art come of an honourable race,
+  Thy father likewise is of noble degree,
+  And thou art well worthy a lady to bee.
+
+  Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte,
+  A bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte,
+  In joy and felicitie long lived hee,
+  All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.
+
+
+[Illustration: Hand dropping gold coins]
+
+
+
+
+
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+
+
+  Thomas lay on the Huntlie bank,
+    A spying ferlies wi his eee,
+  And he did spy a lady gay,
+    Come riding down by the lang lee.
+
+  Her steed was o the dapple grey,
+    And at its mane there hung bells nine;
+  He thought he heard that lady say,
+    "They gowden bells sall a' be thine."
+
+  Her mantle was o velvet green,
+    And a' set round wi jewels fine;
+  Her hawk and hounds were at her side,
+    And her bugle-horn wi gowd did shine.
+
+  Thomas took aff baith cloak and cap,
+    For to salute this gay lady:
+  "O save ye, save ye, fair Queen o Heavn,
+    And ay weel met ye save and see!"
+
+  "I'm no the Queen o Heavn, Thomas;
+    I never carried my head sae hee;
+  For I am but a lady gay,
+    Come out to hunt in my follee.
+
+  "Now gin ye kiss my mouth, Thomas,
+    Ye mauna miss my fair bodee;
+  Then ye may een gang hame and tell
+    That ye've lain wi a gay ladee."
+
+  "O gin I loe a lady fair,
+    Nae ill tales o her wad I tell,
+  And it's wi thee I fain wad gae,
+    Tho it were een to heavn or hell."
+
+  "Then harp and carp, Thomas," she said,
+    "Then harp and carp alang wi me;
+  But it will be seven years and a day
+    Till ye win back to yere ain countrie."
+
+  The lady rade, True Thomas ran,
+    Until they cam to a water wan;
+  O it was night, and nae delight,
+    And Thomas wade aboon the knee.
+
+  It was dark night, and nae starn-light,
+    And on they waded lang days three,
+  And they heard the roaring o a flood,
+    And Thomas a waefou man was he.
+
+  Then they rade on, and farther on,
+    Untill they came to a garden green;
+  To pu an apple he put up his hand,
+    For the lack o food he was like to tyne.
+
+  "O haud yere hand, Thomas," she cried,
+    "And let that green flourishing be;
+  For it's the very fruit o hell,
+    Beguiles baith man and woman o yere countrie.
+
+  "But look afore ye, True Thomas,
+    And I shall show ye ferlies three;
+  Yon is the gate leads to our land,
+    Where thou and I sae soon shall be.
+
+  "And dinna ye see yon road, Thomas,
+    That lies out-owr yon lilly lee?
+  Weel is the man yon gate may gang,
+    For it leads him straight to the heavens hie.
+
+  "But do you see yon road, Thomas,
+    That lies out-owr yon frosty fell?
+  Ill is the man yon gate may gang,
+    For it leads him straight to the pit o hell.
+
+  "Now when ye come to our court, Thomas,
+    See that a weel-learned man ye be;
+  For they will ask ye, one and all,
+    But ye maun answer nane but me.
+
+  "And when nae answer they obtain,
+    Then will they come and question me,
+  And I will answer them again
+    That I gat yere aith at the Eildon tree.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  "Ilka seven years, Thomas,
+    We pay our teindings unto hell,
+  And ye're sae leesome and sae strang
+    That I fear, Thomas, it will be yeresell."
+
+
+
+
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+
+
+  In London city was Bicham born,
+    He longd strange countries for to see,
+  But he was taen by a savage Moor,
+    Who handld him right cruely.
+
+  For thro his shoulder he put a bore,
+    An thro the bore has pitten a tree,
+  An he's gard him draw the carts o wine,
+    Where horse and oxen had wont to be.
+
+  He's casten [him] in a dungeon deep,
+    Where he coud neither hear nor see;
+  He's shut him up in a prison strong,
+    An he's handld him right cruely.
+
+  O this Moor he had but ae daughter,
+    I wot her name was Shusy Pye;
+  She's doen her to the prison-house,
+    And she's calld Young Bicham one word
+
+  "O hae ye ony lands or rents,
+    Or citys in your ain country,
+  Coud free you out of prison strong,
+    An coud mantain a lady free?"
+
+  "O London city is my own,
+    An other citys twa or three,
+  Coud loose me out o prison strong,
+    An coud mantain a lady free."
+
+  O she has bribed her father's men
+    Wi meikle goud and white money,
+  She's gotten the key o the prison doors,
+    An she has set Young Bicham free.
+
+  She's g'in him a loaf o good white bread,
+    But an a flask o Spanish wine,
+  An she bad him mind on the ladie's love
+    That sae kindly freed him out o pine.
+
+  "Go set your foot on good ship-board,
+    An haste you back to your ain country,
+  An before that seven years has an end,
+    Come back again, love, and marry me."
+
+  It was long or seven years had an end
+    She longd fu sair her love to see;
+  She's set her foot on good ship-board,
+    And turnd her back on her ain country.
+
+  She's saild up, so has she doun,
+    Till she came to the other side;
+  She's landed at Young Bicham's gates,
+    An I hop this day she sal be his bride.
+
+  "Is this Young Bicham's gates?" says she,
+    "Or is that noble prince within?"
+  "He's up the stairs wi his bonny bride,
+    An monny a lord and lady wi him."
+
+  "O has he taen a bonny bride,
+    An has he clean forgotten me!"
+  An sighing said that gay lady,
+    I wish I were in my ain country!
+
+  But she's pitten her han in her pocket,
+    An gin the porter guineas three;
+  Says, Take ye that, ye proud porter,
+    An bid the bridegroom speak to me.
+
+  O whan the porter came up the stair,
+    He's fa'n low down upon his knee:
+  "Won up, won up, ye proud porter,
+    An what makes a' this courtesy?"
+
+  "O I've been porter at your gates
+    This mair nor seven years an three,
+  But there is a lady at them now
+    The like of whom I never did see.
+
+  "For on every finger she has a ring,
+    An on the mid-finger she has three,
+  An there's a meikle goud aboon her brow
+    As woud buy an earldome o lan to me."
+
+  Then up it started Young Bicham,
+    An sware so loud by Our Lady,
+  "It can be nane but Shusy Pye,
+    That has come oer the sea to me."
+
+  O quickly ran he down the stair,
+    O fifteen steps he has made but three;
+  He's tane his bonny love in his arms,
+    An a wot he kissd her tenderly.
+
+  "O hae you tane a bonny bride?
+    An hae you quite forsaken me?
+  An hae ye quite forgotten her
+    That gae you life an liberty? "
+  She's lookit oer her left shoulder
+    To hide the tears stood in her ee;
+  "Now fare thee well, Young Bicham," she says,
+    "I'll strive to think nae mair on thee."
+
+  "Take back your daughter, madam," he says,
+    "An a double dowry I'll gi her wi;
+  For I maun marry my first true love,
+    That's done and suffered so much for me."
+
+  He's take his bonny love by the ban,
+    And led her to yon fountain stane;
+  He's changd her name frae Shusy Pye,
+    An he's cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+
+
+  The fifteenth day of July,
+    With glistering spear and shield,
+  A famous fight in Flanders
+    Was foughten in the field:
+  The most couragious officers
+    Were English captains three;
+  But the bravest man in battel
+    Was brave Lord Willoughbèy.
+
+  The next was Captain Norris,
+    A valiant man was hee:
+  The other Captain Turner,
+    From field would never flee.
+  With fifteen hundred fighting men,
+    Alas! there were no more,
+  They fought with fourteen thousand then,
+    Upon the bloody shore.
+
+  Stand to it, noble pikemen,
+    And look you round about:
+  And shoot you right, you bow-men,
+    And we will keep them out:
+  You musquet and callìver men,
+    Do you prove true to me,
+  I'le be the formost man in fight,
+    Says brave Lord Willoughbèy.
+
+  And then the bloody enemy
+    They fiercely did assail,
+  And fought it out most furiously,
+    Not doubting to prevail:
+  The wounded men on both sides fell
+    Most pitious for to see,
+  Yet nothing could the courage quell
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbèy.
+
+  For seven hours to all mens view
+    This fight endured sore,
+  Until our men so feeble grew
+    That they could fight no more;
+  And then upon dead horses
+    Full savourly they eat,
+  And drank the puddle water,
+    They could no better get.
+
+  When they had fed so freely,
+    They kneeled on the ground,
+  And praised God devoutly
+    For the favour they had found;
+  And beating up their colours,
+    The fight they did renew,
+  And turning tow'rds the Spaniard,
+    A thousand more they slew.
+
+  The sharp steel-pointed arrows,
+    And bullets thick did fly,
+  Then did our valiant soldiers
+    Charge on most furiously;
+  Which made the Spaniards waver,
+    They thought it best to flee,
+  They fear'd the stout behaviour
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  Then quoth the Spanish general,
+    Come let us march away,
+  I fear we shall be spoiled all
+    If here we longer stay;
+  For yonder comes Lord Willoughbey
+    With courage fierce and fell,
+  He will not give one inch of way
+    For all the devils in hell.
+
+  And then the fearful enemy
+    Was quickly put to flight,
+  Our men persued couragiously,
+    And caught their forces quite;
+  But at last they gave a shout,
+    Which ecchoed through the sky,
+  God, and St. George for England!
+    The conquerors did cry.
+
+  This news was brought to England
+    With all the speed might be,
+  And soon our gracious queen was told
+    Of this same victory.
+  O this is brave Lord Willoughbey,
+    My love that ever won,
+  Of all the lords of honour
+    'Tis he great deeds hath done.
+
+  To the souldiers that were maimed,
+    And wounded in the fray,
+  The queen allowed a pension
+    Of fifteen pence a day;
+  And from all costs and charges
+    She quit and set them free:
+  And this she did all for the sake
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  Then courage, noble Englishmen,
+    And never be dismaid;
+  If that we be but one to ten,
+    We will not be afraid
+  To fight with foraign enemies,
+    And set our nation free.
+  And thus I end the bloody bout
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+
+
+  Will you hear a Spanish lady,
+    How shed wooed an English man?
+  Garments gay and rich as may be
+    Decked with jewels she had on.
+  Of a comely countenance and grace was she,
+  And by birth and parentage of high degree.
+
+  As his prisoner there he kept her,
+    In his hands her life did lye!
+  Cupid's bands did tye them faster
+    By the liking of an eye.
+  In his courteous company was all her joy,
+  To favour him in any thing she was not coy.
+
+  But at last there came commandment
+    For to set the ladies free,
+  With their jewels still adorned,
+    None to do them injury.
+  Then said this lady mild, Full woe is me;
+  O let me still sustain this kind captivity!
+
+  Gallant captain, shew some pity
+    To a ladye in distresse;
+  Leave me not within this city,
+    For to dye in heavinesse:
+  Thou hast this present day my body free,
+  But my heart in prison still remains with thee.
+
+  "How should'st thou, fair lady, love me,
+    Whom thou knowest thy country's foe?
+  Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee:
+    Serpents lie where flowers grow."
+  All the harme I wishe to thee, most courteous knight,
+  God grant the same upon my head may fully light.
+  Blessed be the time and season,
+    That you came on Spanish ground;
+  If our foes you may be termed,
+    Gentle foes we have you found:
+  With our city, you have won our hearts eche one,
+  Then to your country bear away, that is your owne.
+
+  "Rest you still, most gallant lady;
+    Rest you still, and weep no more;
+  Of fair lovers there is plenty,
+    Spain doth yield a wonderous store."
+  Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find,
+  But Englishmen through all the world are counted kind.
+
+  Leave me not unto a Spaniard,
+    You alone enjoy my heart:
+  I am lovely, young, and tender,
+    Love is likewise my desert:
+  Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest;
+  The wife of every Englishman is counted blest.
+  "It wold be a shame, fair lady,
+    For to bear a woman hence;
+  English soldiers never carry
+    Any such without offence."
+  I'll quickly change myself, if it be so,
+  And like a page He follow thee, where'er thou go.
+
+  "I have neither gold nor silver
+    To maintain thee in this case,
+  And to travel is great charges,
+    As you know in every place."
+  My chains and jewels every one shal be thy own,
+  And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.
+
+  "On the seas are many dangers,
+    Many storms do there arise,
+  Which wil be to ladies dreadful,
+    And force tears from watery eyes."
+  Well in troth I shall endure extremity,
+  For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.
+
+  "Courteous ladye, leave this fancy,
+    Here comes all that breeds the strife;
+  I in England have already
+    A sweet woman to my wife:
+  I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain,
+  Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain."
+
+  O how happy is that woman
+    That enjoys so true a friend!
+  Many happy days God send her;
+    Of my suit I make an end:
+  On my knees I pardon crave for my offence,
+  Which did from love and true affection first commence.
+
+  Commend me to thy lovely lady,
+    Bear to her this chain of gold;
+  And these bracelets for a token;
+    Grieving that I was so bold:
+  All my jewels in like sort take thou with thee,
+  For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.
+
+  I will spend my days in prayer,
+    Love and all her laws defye;
+  In a nunnery will I shroud mee
+    Far from any companye:
+  But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this,
+  To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.
+
+  Thus farewell, most gallant captain!
+    Farewell too my heart's content!
+  Count not Spanish ladies wanton,
+    Though to thee my love was bent:
+  Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee!
+   "The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladie."
+
+
+
+
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  It was a friar of orders gray
+   Walkt forth to tell his beades;
+  And he met with a lady faire,
+    Clad in a pilgrime's weedes.
+
+  Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,
+    I pray thee tell to me,
+  If ever at yon holy shrine
+    My true love thou didst see.
+
+  And how should I know your true love
+    From many another one?
+  O by his cockle hat, and staff,
+    And by his sandal shoone.
+
+  But chiefly by his face and mien,
+    That were so fair to view;
+  His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,
+    And eyne of lovely blue.
+
+  O lady, he is dead and gone!
+    Lady, he's dead and gone!
+  And at his head a green grass turfe,
+    And at his heels a stone.
+
+  Within these holy cloysters long
+    He languisht, and he dyed,
+  Lamenting of a ladyes love,
+    And 'playning of her pride.
+
+  Here bore him barefac'd on his bier
+    Six proper youths and tall,
+  And many a tear bedew'd his grave
+    Within yon kirk-yard wall.
+
+  And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!
+    And art thou dead and gone!
+  And didst thou die for love of me!
+    Break, cruel heart of stone!
+
+  O weep not, lady, weep not soe;
+    Some ghostly comfort seek:
+  Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
+    Ne teares bedew thy cheek.
+
+  O do not, do not, holy friar,
+    My sorrow now reprove;
+  For I have lost the sweetest youth,
+    That e'er wan ladyes love.
+
+  And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse,
+    I'll evermore weep and sigh;
+  For thee I only wisht to live,
+    For thee I wish to dye.
+
+  Weep no more, lady, weep no more,
+    Thy sorrowe is in vaine:
+  For violets pluckt the sweetest showers
+    Will ne'er make grow againe.
+
+  Our joys as winged dreams doe flye,
+    Why then should sorrow last?
+  Since grief but aggravates thy losse,
+    Grieve not for what is past.
+
+  O say not soe, thou holy friar;
+    I pray thee, say not soe:
+  For since my true-love dyed for mee,
+    'Tis meet my tears should flow.
+
+  And will he ne'er come again?
+    Will he ne'er come again?
+  Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,
+    For ever to remain.
+
+  His cheek was redder than the rose;
+    The comliest youth was he!
+  But he is dead and laid in his grave:
+    Alas, and woe is me!
+
+  Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,
+    Men were deceivers ever:
+  One foot on sea and one on land,
+    To one thing constant never.
+
+  Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,
+    And left thee sad and heavy;
+  For young men ever were fickle found,
+    Since summer trees were leafy.
+
+  Now say not so, thou holy friar,
+    I pray thee say not soe;
+  My love he had the truest heart:
+    O he was ever true!
+
+  And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth,
+    And didst thou dye for mee?
+  Then farewell home; for ever-more
+    A pilgrim I will bee.
+
+  But first upon my true-loves grave
+    My weary limbs I'll lay,
+  And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,
+    That wraps his breathless clay.
+
+  Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile
+    Beneath this cloyster wall:
+  See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,
+    And drizzly rain doth fall.
+
+  O stay me not, thou holy friar;
+    O stay me not, I pray;
+  No drizzly rain that falls on me,
+    Can wash my fault away.
+
+  Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
+    And dry those pearly tears;
+  For see beneath this gown of gray
+    Thy own true-love appears.
+
+  Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love,
+    These holy weeds I sought;
+  And here amid these lonely walls
+    To end my days I thought.
+
+  But haply for my year of grace
+    Is not yet past away,
+  Might I still hope to win thy love,
+    No longer would I stay.
+
+  Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
+    Once more unto my heart;
+  For since I have found thee, lovely youth,
+    We never more will part.
+
+
+
+
+CLERK COLVILL
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Clerk Colvill and his lusty dame
+    Were walking in the garden green;
+  The belt around her stately waist
+    Cost Clerk Colvill of pounds fifteen.
+
+  "O promise me now, Clerk Colvill,
+    Or it will cost ye muckle strife,
+  Ride never by the wells of Slane,
+    If ye wad live and brook your life."
+
+  "Now speak nae mair, my lusty dame,
+    Now speak nae mair of that to me;
+  Did I neer see a fair woman,
+    But I wad sin with her body?"
+
+  He's taen leave o his gay lady,
+    Nought minding what his lady said,
+  And he's rode by the wells of Slane,
+    Where washing was a bonny maid.
+
+  "Wash on, wash on, my bonny maid,
+    That wash sae clean your sark of silk;"
+  "And weel fa you, fair gentleman,
+    Your body whiter than the milk."
+
+      *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Then loud, loud cry'd the Clerk Colvill,
+    "O my head it pains me sair;"
+  "Then take, then take," the maiden said,
+    "And frae my sark you'll cut a gare."
+
+  Then she's gied him a little bane-knife,
+    And frae her sark he cut a share;
+  She's ty'd it round his whey-white face,
+    But ay his head it aked mair.
+
+  Then louder cry'd the Clerk Colville,
+    "O sairer, sairer akes my head;"
+  "And sairer, sairer ever will,"
+    The maiden crys, "till you be dead."
+
+  Out then he drew his shining blade,
+    Thinking to stick her where she stood,
+  But she was vanished to a fish,
+    And swam far off, a fair mermaid.
+
+  "O mother, mother, braid my hair;
+    My lusty lady, make my bed;
+  O brother, take my sword and spear,
+    For I have seen the false mermaid."
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+SIR ALDINGAR
+
+
+  Our king he kept a false stewàrde,
+    Sir Aldingar they him call;
+  A falser steward than he was one,
+    Servde not in bower nor hall.
+
+  He wolde have layne by our comelye queene,
+    Her deere worshippe to betraye:
+  Our queene she was a good womàn,
+    And evermore said him naye.
+
+  Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind,
+    With her hee was never content,
+  Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse,
+    In a fyer to have her brent.
+
+  There came a lazar to the kings gate,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame:
+  He tooke the lazar upon his backe,
+    Him on the queenes bed has layne.
+
+  "Lye still, lazar, whereas thou lyest,
+    Looke thou goe not hence away;
+  He make thee a whole man and a sound
+    In two howers of the day."
+
+  Then went him forth Sir Aldingar,
+    And hyed him to our king:
+  "If I might have grace, as I have space,
+    Sad tydings I could bring."
+
+  Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar,
+    Saye on the soothe to mee.
+  "Our queene hath chosen a new new love,
+    And shee will have none of thee.
+
+  "If shee had chosen a right good knight,
+    The lesse had beene her shame;
+  But she hath chose her a lazar man,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame."
+
+  If this be true, thou Aldingar,
+    The tyding thou tellest to me,
+  Then will I make thee a rich rich knight,
+    Rich both of golde and fee.
+
+  But if it be false, Sir Aldingar,
+    As God nowe grant it bee!
+  Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood,
+    Shall hang on the gallows tree.
+
+  He brought our king to the queenes chambèr,
+    And opend to him the dore.
+  A lodlye love, King Harry says,
+    For our queene dame Elinore!
+
+  If thou were a man, as thou art none,
+    Here on my sword thoust dye;
+  But a payre of new gallowes shall be built,
+    And there shalt thou hang on hye.
+
+  Forth then hyed our king, I wysse,
+    And an angry man was hee;
+  And soone he found Queen Elinore,
+    That bride so bright of blee.
+
+  Now God you save, our queene, madame,
+    And Christ you save and see;
+  Heere you have chosen a newe newe love,
+    And you will have none of mee.
+
+  If you had chosen a right good knight,
+    The lesse had been your shame;
+  But you have chose you a lazar man,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame.
+
+  Therfore a fyer there shalt be built,
+    And brent all shalt thou bee.--
+  Now out alacke! said our comly queene,
+    Sir Aldingar's false to mee.
+
+  Now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene,
+    My heart with griefe will brast.
+  I had thought swevens had never been true;
+    I have proved them true at last.
+
+  I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve,
+    In my bed whereas I laye.
+  I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast
+    Had carryed my crowne awaye;
+
+  My gorgett and my kirtle of golde,
+    And all my faire head-geere:
+  And he wold worrye me with his tush
+    And to his nest y-beare:
+
+  Saving there came a little 'gray' hawke,
+    A merlin him they call,
+  Which untill the grounde did strike the grype,
+    That dead he downe did fall.
+
+  Giffe I were a man, as now I am none,
+    A battell wold I prove,
+  To fight with that traitor Aldingar,
+    Att him I cast my glove.
+
+  But seeing Ime able noe battell to make,
+    My liege, grant me a knight
+  To fight with that traitor Sir Aldingar,
+    To maintaine me in my right.
+
+  "Now forty dayes I will give thee
+    To seeke thee a knight therein:
+  If thou find not a knight in forty dayes
+    Thy bodye it must brenn."
+
+  Then shee sent east, and shee sent west,
+    By north and south bedeene:
+  But never a champion colde she find,
+    Wolde fight with that knight soe keene.
+
+  Now twenty dayes were spent and gone,
+    Noe helpe there might be had;
+  Many a teare shed our comelye queene
+    And aye her hart was sad.
+
+  Then came one of the queenes damsèlles,
+    And knelt upon her knee,
+  "Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame,
+    I trust yet helpe may be:
+
+  And here I will make mine avowe,
+    And with the same me binde;
+  That never will I return to thee,
+    Till I some helpe may finde."
+
+  Then forth she rode on a faire palfràye
+    Oer hill and dale about:
+  But never a champion colde she finde,
+    Wolde fighte with that knight so stout.
+
+  And nowe the daye drewe on a pace,
+    When our good queene must dye;
+  All woe-begone was that faire damsèlle,
+    When she found no helpe was nye.
+
+  All woe-begone was that faire damsèlle,
+    And the salt teares fell from her eye:
+  When lo! as she rode by a rivers side,
+    She met with a tinye boye.
+
+  A tinye boye she mette, God wot,
+    All clad in mantle of golde;
+  He seemed noe more in mans likenèsse,
+    Then a childe of four yeere old.
+
+  Why grieve you, damselle faire, he sayd,
+    And what doth cause you moane?
+  The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke,
+    But fast she pricked on.
+
+  Yet turne againe, thou faire damsèlle
+    And greete thy queene from mee:
+  When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest,
+    Nowe helpe enoughe may bee.
+
+  Bid her remember what she dreamt
+    In her bedd, wheras shee laye;
+  How when the grype and grimly beast
+    Wolde have carried her crowne awaye,
+
+  Even then there came the little gray hawke,
+    And saved her from his clawes:
+  Then bidd the queene be merry at hart,
+    For heaven will fende her cause.
+
+  Back then rode that faire damsèlle,
+    And her hart it lept for glee:
+  And when she told her gracious dame
+    A gladd woman then was shee:
+
+  But when the appointed day was come,
+    No helpe appeared nye:
+  Then woeful, woeful was her hart,
+    And the teares stood in her eye.
+
+  And nowe a fyer was built of wood;
+    And a stake was made of tree;
+  And now Queene Elinor forth was led,
+    A sorrowful sight to see.
+
+  Three times the herault he waved his hand,
+    And three times spake on hye:
+  Giff any good knight will fende this dame,
+    Come forth, or shee must dye.
+
+  No knight stood forth, no knight there came,
+    No helpe appeared nye:
+  And now the fyer was lighted up,
+    Queen Elinor she must dye.
+
+  And now the fyer was lighted up,
+    As hot as hot might bee;
+  When riding upon a little white steed,
+    The tinye boy they see.
+
+  "Away with that stake, away with those brands,
+    And loose our comelye queene:
+  I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar,
+    And prove him a traitor keene."
+
+  Forthe then stood Sir Aldingar,
+    But when he saw the chylde,
+  He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe,
+    And weened he had been beguylde.
+
+  "Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar,
+    And eyther fighte or flee;
+  I trust that I shall avenge the wronge,
+    Thoughe I am so small to see."
+
+  The boy pulld forth a well good sworde
+    So gilt it dazzled the ee;
+  The first stroke stricken at Aldingar,
+    Smote off his leggs by the knee.
+
+  "Stand up, stand up, thou false traitòr,
+    And fight upon thy feete,
+  For and thou thrive, as thou begin'st,
+    Of height wee shall be meete."
+
+  A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingàr,
+    While I am a man alive.
+  A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingàr,
+    Me for to houzle and shrive.
+
+  I wolde have laine by our comlie queene,
+    Bot shee wolde never consent;
+  Then I thought to betraye her unto our kinge
+    In a fyer to have her brent.
+
+  There came a lazar to the kings gates,
+    A lazar both blind and lame:
+  I tooke the lazar upon my backe,
+    And on her bedd had him layne.
+
+  Then ranne I to our comlye king,
+    These tidings sore to tell.
+  But ever alacke! sayes Aldingar,
+    Falsing never doth well.
+
+  Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame,
+    The short time I must live.
+  "Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar,
+    As freely I forgive."
+
+  Here take thy queene, our king Harryè,
+    And love her as thy life,
+  For never had a king in Christentye.
+    A truer and fairer wife.
+
+  King Henrye ran to claspe his queene,
+    And loosed her full sone:
+  Then turned to look for the tinye boye;
+    --The boye was vanisht and gone.
+
+  But first he had touched the lazar man,
+    And stroakt him with his hand:
+  The lazar under the gallowes tree
+    All whole and sounde did stand.
+
+  The lazar under the gallowes tree
+    Was comelye, straight and tall;
+  King Henrye made him his head stewàrde
+    To wayte withinn his hall.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+EDOM O' GORDON
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  It fell about the Martinmas,
+    Quhen the wind blew shril and cauld,
+  Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,
+    We maun draw till a hauld.
+
+  And quhat a hauld sall we draw till,
+    My mirry men and me?
+  We wul gae to the house o' the Rodes,
+    To see that fair ladie.
+
+  The lady stude on her castle wa',
+    Beheld baith dale and down:
+  There she was ware of a host of men
+    Cum ryding towards the toun.
+
+  O see ze nat, my mirry men a'?
+    O see za nat quhat I see?
+  Methinks I see a host of men:
+    I marveil quha they be.
+
+  She weend it had been hir luvely lord,
+    As he cam ryding hame;
+  It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon,
+    Quha reckt nae sin nor shame.
+
+  She had nae sooner buskit hirsel,
+    And putten on hir goun,
+  But Edom o' Gordon and his men
+    Were round about the toun.
+
+  They had nae sooner supper sett,
+    Nae sooner said the grace,
+  But Edom o' Gordon and his men
+    Were light about the place.
+
+  The lady ran up to hir towir head,
+    Sa fast as she could hie,
+  To see if by hir fair speechès
+    She could wi' him agree.
+
+  But quhan he see this lady saif,
+    And hir yates all locked fast,
+  He fell into a rage of wrath,
+    And his look was all aghast.
+
+  Cum doun to me, ze lady gay,
+    Cum doun, cum doun to me:
+  This night sall ye lig within mine armes,
+    To-morrow my bride sall be.
+
+  I winnae cum doun ze fals Gordòn,
+    I winnae cum doun to thee;
+  I winna forsake my ain dear lord,
+    That is sae far frae me.
+
+  Give owre zour house, ze lady fair,
+    Give owre zour house to me,
+  Or I sall brenn yoursel therein,
+    Bot and zour babies three.
+
+  I winnae give owre, ze false Gordòn,
+    To nae sik traitor as zee;
+  And if ze brenn my ain dear babes,
+    My lord sall make ze drie.
+
+  But reach my pistoll, Glaud my man,
+    And charge ze weil my gun:
+  For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher,
+    My babes we been undone.
+
+  She stude upon hir castle wa',
+    And let twa bullets flee:
+  She mist that bluidy butchers hart,
+    And only raz'd his knee.
+
+  Set fire to the house, quo' fals Gordòn,
+    All wood wi' dule and ire:
+  Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid,
+    As ze bren in the fire.
+
+  Wae worth, wae worth ze, Jock my man,
+    I paid ze weil zour fee;
+  Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane,
+    Lets in the reek to me?
+
+  And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man,
+    I paid ze weil zour hire;
+  Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane,
+    To me lets in the fire?
+
+  Ze paid me weil my hire, lady;
+    Ze paid me weil my fee:
+  But now I'm Edom o' Gordons man,
+    Maun either doe or die.
+
+  O than bespaik hir little son,
+    Sate on the nurses knee:
+  Sayes, Mither deare, gi' owre this house,
+    For the reek it smithers me.
+
+  I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe,
+    Say wald I a' my fee,
+  For ane blast o' the western wind,
+    To blaw the reek frae thee.
+
+  O then bespaik hir dochter dear,
+    She was baith jimp and sma;
+  O row me in a pair o' sheits,
+    And tow me owre the wa.
+
+  They rowd hir in a pair o' sheits,
+    And towd hir owre the wa:
+  But on the point of Gordons spear
+    She gat a deadly fa.
+
+  O bonnie bonnie was hir mouth,
+    And cherry were her cheiks,
+  And clear clear was hir zellow hair,
+    Whereon the reid bluid dreips.
+
+  Then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre,
+    O gin hir face was wan!
+  He sayd, Ze are the first that eir
+    I wisht alive again.
+
+  He turnd hir owre and owre againe,
+    O gin hir skin was whyte!
+  I might ha spared that bonnie face
+    To hae been sum mans delyte.
+
+  Busk and boun, my merry men a',
+    For ill dooms I doe guess;
+  I cannae luik in that bonnie face,
+    As it lyes on the grass.
+
+  Thame, luiks to freits, my master deir,
+    Then freits wil follow thame:
+  Let neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon
+    Was daunted by a dame.
+
+  But quhen the ladye see the fire
+    Cum flaming owre hir head,
+  She wept and kist her children twain,
+    Sayd, Bairns, we been but dead.
+
+  The Gordon then his bougill blew,
+    And said, Awa', awa';
+  This house o' the Rodes is a' in flame,
+    I hauld it time to ga'.
+
+  O then bespyed hir ain dear lord,
+    As hee cam owr the lee;
+  He sied his castle all in blaze     Sa far as he could see.
+
+  Then sair, O sair his mind misgave,
+    And all his hart was wae;
+  Put on, put on, my wighty men,
+    So fast as ze can gae.
+
+  Put on, put on, my wighty men,
+    Sa fast as ze can drie;
+  For he that is hindmost of the thrang
+    Sall neir get guid o' me.
+
+  Than sum they rade, and sum they rin,
+    Fou fast out-owr the bent;
+  But eir the foremost could get up,
+    Baith lady and babes were brent.
+
+  He wrang his hands, he rent his hair,
+    And wept in teenefu' muid:
+  O traitors, for this cruel deid
+    Ze sall weep tiers o' bluid.
+
+  And after the Gordon he is gane,
+    Sa fast as he might drie.
+  And soon i' the Gordon's foul hartis bluid
+    He's wroken his dear ladie.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+CHEVY CHASE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  God prosper long our noble king,
+    Our lives and safetyes all;
+  A woefull hunting once there did
+    In Chevy-Chace befall;
+
+  To drive the deere with hound and horne,
+    Erle Percy took his way,
+  The child may rue that is unborne,
+    The hunting of that day.
+
+  The stout Erle of Northumberland
+    A vow to God did make,
+  His pleasure in the Scottish woods
+    Three summers days to take;
+
+  The cheefest harts in Chevy-chace
+    To kill and beare away.
+  These tydings to Erle Douglas came,
+    In Scotland where he lay:
+
+  Who sent Erle Percy present word,
+    He wold prevent his sport.
+  The English erle, not fearing that,
+    Did to the woods resort
+
+  With fifteen hundred bow-men bold;
+    All chosen men of might,
+  Who knew full well in time of neede
+    To ayme their shafts arright.
+
+  The galland greyhounds swiftly ran,
+    To chase the fallow deere:
+  On munday they began to hunt,
+    Ere day-light did appeare;
+
+  And long before high noone they had
+    An hundred fat buckes slaine;
+  Then having dined, the drovyers went
+    To rouze the deare againe.
+
+  The bow-men mustered on the hills,
+    Well able to endure;
+  Theire backsides all, with speciall care,
+    That day were guarded sure.
+
+  The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,
+    The nimble deere to take,
+  That with their cryes the hills and dales
+    An eccho shrill did make.
+
+  Lord Percy to the quarry went,
+    To view the slaughter'd deere;
+  Quoth he, Erle Douglas promised
+    This day to meet me heere:
+
+  But if I thought he wold not come,
+    Noe longer wold I stay.
+  With that, a brave younge gentleman
+    Thus to the Erle did say:
+
+  Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,
+    His men in armour bright;
+  Full twenty hundred Scottish speres
+    All marching in our sight;
+
+  All men of pleasant Tivydale,
+    Fast by the river Tweede:
+  O cease your sports, Erle Percy said,
+    And take your bowes with speede:
+
+  And now with me, my countrymen,
+    Your courage forth advance;
+  For there was never champion yett,
+    In Scotland nor in France,
+
+  That ever did on horsebacke come,
+    But if my hap it were,
+  I durst encounter man for man,
+    With him to break a spere.
+
+  Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede,
+    Most like a baron bolde,
+  Rode foremost of his company,
+    Whose armour shone like gold.
+
+  Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee,
+    That hunt soe boldly heere,
+  That, without my consent, doe chase
+    And kill my fallow-deere.
+
+  The first man that did answer make
+    Was noble Percy hee;
+  Who sayd, Wee list not to declare,
+    Nor shew whose men wee bee:
+  Yet wee will spend our deerest blood,
+    Thy cheefest harts to slay.
+  Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe,
+    And thus in rage did say,
+
+  Ere thus I will out-braved bee,
+    One of us two shall dye:
+  I know thee well, an erle thou art;
+    Lord Percy, soe am I.
+
+  But trust me, Percy, pittye it were,
+    And great offence to kill
+  Any of these our guiltlesse men,
+    For they have done no ill.
+
+  Let thou and I the battell trye,
+    And set our men aside.
+  Accurst bee he, Erle Percy sayd,
+    By whome this is denyed.
+
+  Then stept a gallant squier forth,
+    Witherington was his name,
+  Who said, I wold not have it told
+    To Henry our king for shame,
+
+  That ere my captaine fought on foote,
+    And I stood looking on.
+  You be two erles, sayd Witherington,
+    And I a squier alone:
+
+  He doe the best that doe I may,
+    While I have power to stand:
+  While I have power to weeld my sword
+    He fight with hart and hand.
+
+  Our English archers bent their bowes,
+    Their harts were good and trew;
+  Att the first flight of arrowes sent,
+    Full four-score Scots they slew.
+
+  Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent,
+    As Chieftain stout and good.
+  As valiant Captain, all unmov'd
+    The shock he firmly stood.
+
+  His host he parted had in three,
+    As Leader ware and try'd,
+  And soon his spearmen on their foes
+    Bare down on every side.
+
+  To drive the deere with hound and horne,
+    Douglas bade on the bent
+  Two captaines moved with mickle might
+    Their speres to shivers went.
+
+  Throughout the English archery
+    They dealt full many a wound:
+  But still our valiant Englishmen
+    All firmly kept their ground:
+
+  And throwing strait their bows away,
+    They grasp'd their swords so bright:
+  And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,
+    On shields and helmets light.
+
+  They closed full fast on every side,
+    Noe slackness there was found:
+  And many a gallant gentleman
+    Lay gasping on the ground.
+
+  O Christ! it was a griefe to see;
+    And likewise for to heare,
+  The cries of men lying in their gore,
+    And scattered here and there.
+
+  At last these two stout erles did meet,
+    Like captaines of great might:
+  Like lyons wood, they layd on lode,
+    And made a cruell fight:
+
+  They fought untill they both did sweat,
+    With swords of tempered steele;
+  Untill the blood, like drops of rain,
+    They tricklin downe did feele.
+
+  Yeeld thee, Lord Percy, Douglas sayd
+    In faith I will thee bringe,
+  Where thou shalt high advanced bee
+    By James our Scottish king:
+
+  Thy ransome I will freely give,
+    And this report of thee,
+  Thou art the most couragious knight,
+    That ever I did see.
+
+  Noe, Douglas, quoth Erle Percy then,
+    Thy proffer I doe scorne;
+  I will not yeelde to any Scott,
+    That ever yett was borne.
+
+  With that, there came an arrow keene
+    Out of an English bow,
+  Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart,
+    A deepe and deadlye blow:
+
+  Who never spake more words than these,
+    Fight on, my merry men all;
+  For why, my life is at an end;
+    Lord Percy sees my fall.
+
+  Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke
+    The dead man by the hand;
+  And said, Erle Douglas, for thy life
+    Wold I had lost my land.
+
+  O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed
+    With sorrow for thy sake;
+  For sure, a more redoubted knight
+    Mischance cold never take.
+
+  A knight amongst the Scotts there was
+    Which saw Erle Douglas dye,
+  Who streight in wrath did vow revenge
+    Upon the Lord Percye:
+
+  Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd,
+    Who, with a spere most bright,
+  Well-mounted on a gallant steed,
+    Ran fiercely through the fight;
+
+  And past the English archers all,
+    Without all dread or feare;
+  And through Earl Percyes body then
+    He thrust his hatefull spere;
+
+  With such a vehement force and might
+    He did his body gore,
+  The staff ran through the other side
+    A large cloth-yard and more.
+
+  So thus did both these nobles dye,
+    Whose courage none could staine:
+  An English archer then perceiv'd
+    The noble erle was slaine;
+
+  He had a bow bent in his hand,
+    Made of a trusty tree;
+  An arrow of a cloth-yard long
+    Up to the head drew hee:
+
+  Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye,
+    So right the shaft he sett,
+  The grey goose-winge that was thereon,
+    In his harts bloode was wette.
+
+  This fight did last from breake of day,
+    Till setting of the sun;
+  For when they rang the evening-bell,
+    The battel scarce was done.
+
+  With stout Erle Percy there was slaine
+    Sir John of Egerton,
+  Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,
+    Sir James that bold barròn:
+
+  And with Sir George and stout Sir James,
+    Both knights of good account,
+  Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine,
+    Whose prowesse did surmount.
+
+  For Witherington needs must I wayle,
+    As one in doleful dumpes;
+  For when his leggs were smitten off,
+    He fought upon his stumpes.
+
+  And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine
+    Sir Hugh Montgomerye,
+  Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld
+    One foote wold never flee.
+
+  Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too,
+    His sisters sonne was hee;
+  Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd,
+    Yet saved cold not bee.
+
+  And the Lord Maxwell in like case
+    Did with Erle Douglas dye:
+  Of twenty hundred Scottish speres,
+    Scarce fifty-five did flye.
+
+  Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
+    Went home but fifty-three;
+  The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace,
+    Under the greene woode tree.
+
+  Next day did many widowes come,
+    Their husbands to bewayle;
+  They washt their wounds in brinish teares,
+    But all wold not prevayle.
+
+  Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore,
+    They bare with them away:
+  They kist them dead a thousand times,
+    Ere they were cladd in clay.
+
+  The news was brought to Eddenborrow,
+    Where Scottlands king did raigne,
+  That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye
+    Was with an arrow slaine:
+
+  O heavy newes, King James did say,
+    Scotland may witnesse bee,
+  I have not any captaine more
+    Of such account as hee.
+
+  Like tydings to King Henry came,
+    Within as short a space,
+  That Percy of Northumberland
+    Was slaine in Chevy-Chace:
+
+  Now God be with him, said our king,
+    Sith it will noe better bee;
+  I trust I have, within my realme,
+    Five hundred as good as hee:
+
+  Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say,
+    But I will vengeance take:
+  I'll be revenged on them all,
+    For brave Erle Percyes sake.
+
+  This vow full well the king perform'd
+    After, at Humbledowne;
+  In one day, fifty knights were slayne,
+    With lords of great renowne:
+
+  And of the rest, of small acount,
+    Did many thousands dye:
+  Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase,
+    Made by the Erle Percy.
+
+  God save our king, and bless this land
+    With plenty, joy, and peace;
+  And grant henceforth, that foule debate
+    'Twixt noblemen may cease.
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+
+
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+  When Arthur first in court began,
+    And was approved king,
+   By force of armes great victorys wanne,
+  And conquest home did bring,
+
+  Then into England straight he came
+    With fifty good and able
+  Knights, that resorted unto him,
+    And were of his round table:
+
+  And he had justs and turnaments,
+    Whereto were many prest,
+  Wherein some knights did far excell
+    And eke surmount the rest.
+
+  But one Sir Lancelot du Lake,
+    Who was approved well,
+  He for his deeds and feats of armes
+    All others did excell.
+
+  When he had rested him a while,
+    In play, and game, and sportt,
+  He said he wold goe prove himselfe
+    In some adventurous sort.
+
+  He armed rode in a forrest wide,
+    And met a damsell faire,
+  Who told him of adventures great,
+    Whereto he gave great eare.
+
+  Such wold I find, quoth Lancelott:
+    For that cause came I hither.
+  Thou seemest, quoth shee, a knight full good,
+    And I will bring thee thither.
+
+  Wheras a mighty knight doth dwell,
+    That now is of great fame:
+  Therefore tell me what wight thou art,
+    And what may be thy name.
+
+  "My name is Lancelot du Lake."
+    Quoth she, it likes me than:
+  Here dwelles a knight who never was
+    Yet matcht with any man:
+
+  Who has in prison threescore knights
+    And four, that he did wound;
+  Knights of King Arthurs court they be,
+    And of his table round.
+
+  She brought him to a river side,
+    And also to a tree,
+  Whereon a copper bason hung,
+    And many shields to see.
+
+  He struck soe hard, the bason broke;
+    And Tarquin soon he spyed:
+  Who drove a horse before him fast,
+    Whereon a knight lay tyed.
+
+  Sir knight, then sayd Sir Lancelett,
+    Bring me that horse-load hither,
+  And lay him downe, and let him rest;
+    Weel try our force together:
+
+  For, as I understand, thou hast,
+    So far as thou art able,
+  Done great despite and shame unto
+    The knights of the Round Table.
+
+  If thou be of the Table Round,
+    Quoth Tarquin speedilye,
+  Both thee and all thy fellowship
+    I utterly defye.
+
+  That's over much, quoth Lancelott tho,
+    Defend thee by and by.
+  They sett their speares unto their steeds,
+    And eache att other flie.
+
+  They coucht theire speares (their horses ran,
+    As though there had beene thunder),
+  And strucke them each immidst their shields,
+    Wherewith they broke in sunder.
+
+  Their horsses backes brake under them,
+    The knights were both astound:
+  To avoyd their horsses they made haste
+    And light upon the ground.
+
+  They tooke them to their shields full fast,
+    Their swords they drewe out than,
+  With mighty strokes most eagerlye
+    Each at the other ran.
+
+  They wounded were, and bled full sore,
+    They both for breath did stand,
+  And leaning on their swords awhile,
+    Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand,
+
+  And tell to me what I shall aske.
+    Say on, quoth Lancelot tho.
+  Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight
+    That ever I did know:
+
+  And like a knight, that I did hate:
+    Soe that thou be not hee,
+  I will deliver all the rest,
+    And eke accord with thee.
+
+  That is well said, quoth Lancelott;
+    But sith it must be soe,
+  What knight is that thou hatest thus
+    I pray thee to me show.
+
+  His name is Lancelot du Lake,
+    He slew my brother deere;
+  Him I suspect of all the rest:
+    I would I had him here.
+
+  Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne,
+    I am Lancelot du Lake,
+  Now knight of Arthurs Table Round;
+    King Hauds son of Schuwake;
+
+  And I desire thee to do thy worst.
+    Ho, ho, quoth Tarquin tho'
+  One of us two shall ende our lives
+    Before that we do go.
+
+  If thou be Lancelot du Lake,
+    Then welcome shalt thou bee:
+  Wherfore see thou thyself defend,
+    For now defye I thee.
+
+  They buckled them together so,
+    Like unto wild boares rashing;
+  And with their swords and shields they ran
+    At one another slashing:
+
+  The ground besprinkled was with blood:
+    Tarquin began to yield;
+  For he gave backe for wearinesse,
+    And lowe did beare his shield.
+
+  This soone Sir Lancelot espyde,
+    He leapt upon him then,
+  He pull'd him downe upon his knee,
+    And rushing off his helm,
+
+  Forthwith he strucke his necke in two,
+    And, when he had soe done,
+  From prison threescore knights and four
+    Delivered everye one.
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+GIL MORRICE
+
+
+  Gil Morrice was an erles son,
+     His name it waxed wide;
+    It was nae for his great riches,
+  Nor zet his mickle pride;
+  Bot it was for a lady gay,
+    That livd on Carron side.
+
+  Quhair sail I get a bonny boy,
+    That will win hose and shoen;
+  That will gae to Lord Barnards ha',
+    And bid his lady cum?
+  And ze maun rin my errand, Willie;
+    And ze may rin wi' pride;
+  Quhen other boys gae on their foot
+    On horse-back ze sail ride.
+
+  O no! Oh no! my master dear!
+    I dare nae for my life;
+  I'll no gae to the bauld baròns,
+    For to triest furth his wife.
+  My bird Willie, my boy Willie;
+    My dear Willie, he sayd:
+  How can ze strive against the stream?
+    For I sall be obeyd.
+
+  Bot, O my master dear! he cryd,
+    In grene wod ze're zour lain;
+  Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede,
+    For fear ze should be tain.
+  Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',
+    Bid hir cum here wi speid:
+  If ze refuse my heigh command,
+    Ill gar zour body bleid.
+
+  Gae bid hir take this gay mantel,
+    'Tis a' gowd hot the hem;
+  Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,
+    And bring nane bot hir lain:
+  And there it is a silken sarke,
+    Hir ain hand sewd the sleive;
+  And bid hir cum to Gill Morice,
+    Speir nae bauld barons leave.
+
+  Yes, I will gae zour black errand,
+    Though it be to zour cost;
+  Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd,
+    In it ze sail find frost.
+  The baron he is a man of might,
+    He neir could bide to taunt,
+  As ze will see before its nicht,
+    How sma' ze hae to vaunt.
+
+  And sen I maun zour errand rin
+    Sae sair against my will,
+  I'se mak a vow and keip it trow,
+    It sall be done for ill.
+  And quhen he came to broken brigue,
+    He bent his bow and swam;
+  And quhen he came to grass growing,
+    Set down his feet and ran.
+
+  And quhen he came to Barnards ha',
+    Would neither chap nor ca':
+  Bot set his bent bow to his breist,
+    And lichtly lap the wa'.
+  He wauld nae tell the man his errand,
+    Though he stude at the gait;
+  Bot straiht into the ha' he cam,
+    Quhair they were set at meit.
+
+  Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame!
+    My message winna waite;
+  Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod
+    Before that it be late.
+  Ze're bidden tak this gay mantèl,
+    Tis a' gowd bot the hem:
+  Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode,
+    Ev'n by your sel alane.
+
+  And there it is, a silken sarke,
+    Your ain hand sewd the sleive;
+  Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice:
+    Speir nae bauld barons leave.
+  The lady stamped wi' hir foot,
+    And winked wi' hir ee;
+  Bot a' that she coud say or do,
+    Forbidden he wad nae bee.
+
+  Its surely to my bow'r-womàn;
+    It neir could be to me.
+  I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
+    I trow that ze be she.
+  Then up and spack the wylie nurse,
+    (The bairn upon hir knee)
+  If it be cum frae Gill Morice,
+    It's deir welcum to mee.
+
+  Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse,
+    Sae loud I heird zee lee;
+  I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
+    I trow ze be nae shee.
+  Then up and spack the bauld baròn,
+    An angry man was hee;
+  He's tain the table wi' his foot,
+    Sae has he wi' his knee;
+  Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish
+    In flinders he gard flee.
+
+  Gae bring a robe of zour clidìng,
+    That hings upon the pin;
+  And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,
+    And speik wi' zour lemmàn.
+  O bide at hame, now Lord Barnàrd,
+    I warde ze bide at hame;
+  Neir wyte a man for violence,
+    That neir wate ze wi' nane.
+
+  Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode,
+    He whistled and he sang:
+  O what mean a' the folk comìng,
+    My mother tarries lang.
+  His hair was like the threeds of gold,
+    Drawne frae Minerva's loome:
+  His lipps like roses drapping dew,
+    His breath was a' perfume.
+
+  His brow was like the mountain snae
+    Gilt by the morning beam:
+  His cheeks like living roses glow:
+    His een like azure stream.  The boy was clad in robes of grene,
+    Sweete as the infant spring:
+  And like the mavis on the bush,
+    He gart the vallies ring.
+
+  The baron came to the grene wode,
+    Wi' mickle dule and care,
+  And there he first spied Gill Morice
+    Kameing his zellow hair:
+  That sweetly wavd around his face,
+    That face beyond compare:
+  He sang sae sweet it might dispel
+    A' rage but fell despair.
+
+  Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morìce,
+    My lady loed thee weel,
+  The fairest part of my bodie
+    Is blacker than thy heel.
+  Zet neir the less now, Gill Morìce,
+    For a' thy great beautiè,
+  Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;
+    That head sall gae wi' me.
+
+  Now he has drawn his trusty brand,
+    And slaited on the strae;
+  And thro' Gill Morice' fair body
+    He's gar cauld iron gae.
+  And he has tain Gill Morice's head
+    And set it on a speir;
+  The meanest man in a' his train
+    Has gotten that head to bear.
+
+  And he has tain Gill Morice up,
+    Laid him across his steid,
+  And brocht him to his painted bowr,
+    And laid him on a bed.
+  The lady sat on castil wa',
+    Beheld baith dale and doun;
+  And there she saw Gill Morice' head
+    Cum trailing to the toun.
+
+  Far better I loe that bluidy head,
+    Both and that zellow hair,
+  Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands,
+    As they lig here and thair.
+  And she has tain her Gill Morice,
+    And kissd baith mouth and chin:
+  I was once as fow of Gill Morice,
+    As the hip is o' the stean.
+
+  I got ze in my father's house,
+    Wi' mickle sin and shame;
+  I brocht thee up in gude grene wode,
+    Under the heavy rain.
+  Oft have I by thy cradle sitten,
+    And fondly seen thee sleip;
+  But now I gae about thy grave,
+    The saut tears for to weip.
+
+  And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,
+    And syne his bluidy chin:
+  O better I loe my Gill Morice
+    Than a' my kith and kin!
+  Away, away, ze ill womàn,
+    And an il deith mait ze dee:
+  Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son,
+    He'd neir bin slain for mee.
+
+  Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard!
+    Obraid me not for shame!
+  Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart!
+    And put me out o' pain.
+  Since nothing bot Gill Morice head
+    Thy jelous rage could quell,
+  Let that saim hand now tak hir life,
+    That neir to thee did ill.
+
+  To me nae after days nor nichts
+    Will eir be saft or kind;
+  I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,
+    And greet till I am blind.
+  Enouch of blood by me's been spilt,
+    Seek not zour death frae mee;
+  I rather lourd it had been my sel
+    Than eather him or thee.
+
+  With waefo wae I hear zour plaint;
+    Sair, sair I rew the deid,
+  That eir this cursed hand of mine
+    Had gard his body bleid.
+  Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame,
+    Ze neir can heal the wound;
+  Ze see his head upon the speir,
+    His heart's blude on the ground.
+
+  I curse the hand that did the deid,
+    The heart that thocht the ill;
+  The feet that bore me wi' sik speid,
+    The comely zouth to kill.
+  I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,
+    As gin he were mine ain;
+  I'll neir forget the dreiry day
+    On which the zouth was slain.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+The CHILD of ELLE
+
+
+  On yondre hill a castle standes
+    With walles and towres bedight,
+   And yonder lives the Child of Elle,
+  A younge and comely knighte.
+
+  The Child of Elle to his garden went,
+    And stood at his garden pale,
+  Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page
+    Come trippinge downe the dale.
+
+  The Child of Elle he hyed him thence,
+    Y-wis he stoode not stille,
+  And soone he mette faire Emmelines page
+    Come climbinge up the hille.
+
+  Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page,
+    Now Christe thee save and see!
+  Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye,
+    And what may thy tydinges bee?
+
+  My ladye shee is all woe-begone,
+    And the teares they falle from her eyne;
+  And aye she laments the deadlye feude
+    Betweene her house and thine.
+
+  And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe
+    Bedewde with many a teare,
+  And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her,
+    Who loved thee so deare.
+
+  And here shee sends thee a ring of golde
+    The last boone thou mayst have,
+  And biddes thee weare it for her sake,
+    Whan she is layde in grave.
+
+  For, ah! her gentle heart is broke,
+    And in grave soone must shee bee,
+  Sith her father hath chose her a new new love,
+    And forbidde her to think of thee.
+
+  Her father hath brought her a carlish knight,
+    Sir John of the north countràye,
+  And within three dayes she must him wedde,
+    Or he vowes he will her slaye.
+
+  Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
+    And greet thy ladye from mee,
+  And telle her that I her owne true love
+    Will dye, or sette her free.
+
+  Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
+    And let thy fair ladye know
+  This night will I bee at her bowre-windòwe,
+    Betide me weale or woe.
+
+  The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne,
+    He neither stint ne stayd
+  Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre,
+    Whan kneeling downe he sayd,
+
+  O ladye, I've been with thine own true love,
+    And he greets thee well by mee;
+  This night will hee bee at thy bowre-windòwe,
+    And dye or sett thee free.
+
+  Nowe daye was gone, and night was come,
+    And all were fast asleepe,
+  All save the Ladye Emmeline,
+    Who sate in her bowre to weepe:
+
+  And soone shee heard her true loves voice
+    Lowe whispering at the walle,
+  Awake, awake, my deare ladyè,
+    Tis I thy true love call.
+
+  Awake, awake, my ladye deare,
+    Come, mount this faire palfràye:
+  This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe
+    He carrye thee hence awaye.
+
+  Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight,
+    Nowe nay, this may not bee;
+  For aye shold I tint my maiden fame,
+    If alone I should wend with thee.
+
+  O ladye, thou with a knighte so true
+    Mayst safelye wend alone,
+  To my ladye mother I will thee bringe,
+    Where marriage shall make us one.
+
+  "My father he is a baron bolde,
+    Of lynage proude and hye;
+  And what would he saye if his daughtèr
+    Awaye with a knight should fly
+
+  "Ah! well I wot, he never would rest,
+    Nor his meate should doe him no goode,
+  Until he hath slayne thee, Child of Elle,
+    And scene thy deare hearts bloode."
+
+  O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,
+    And a little space him fro,
+  I would not care for thy cruel fathèr,
+    Nor the worst that he could doe.
+
+  O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,
+    And once without this walle,
+  I would not care for thy cruel fathèr
+    Nor the worst that might befalle.
+
+  Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept,
+    And aye her heart was woe:
+  At length he seized her lilly-white hand,
+    And downe the ladder he drewe:
+
+  And thrice he clasped her to his breste,
+    And kist her tenderlìe:
+  The teares that fell from her fair eyes
+    Ranne like the fountayne free.
+
+  Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle,
+    And her on a fair palfràye,
+  And slung his bugle about his necke,
+    And roundlye they rode awaye.
+
+  All this beheard her owne damsèlle,
+    In her bed whereas shee ley,
+  Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this,
+    Soe I shall have golde and fee.
+
+  Awake, awake, thou baron bolde!
+    Awake, my noble dame!
+  Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle
+    To doe the deede of shame.
+
+  The baron he woke, the baron he rose,
+    And called his merrye men all:
+  "And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte,
+    Thy ladye is carried to thrall."
+
+  Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile,
+    A mile forth of the towne,
+  When she was aware of her fathers men
+    Come galloping over the downe:
+
+  And foremost came the carlish knight,
+    Sir John of the north countràye:
+  "Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitòure,
+    Nor carry that ladye awaye.
+
+  "For she is come of hye lineàge,
+    And was of a ladye borne,
+  And ill it beseems thee, a false churl's sonne,
+    To carrye her hence to scorne."
+
+  Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight,
+    Nowe thou doest lye of mee;
+  A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore,
+    Soe never did none by thee
+
+  But light nowe downe, my ladye faire,
+    Light downe, and hold my steed,
+  While I and this discourteous knighte
+    Doe trye this arduous deede.
+
+  But light now downe, my deare ladyè,
+    Light downe, and hold my horse;
+  While I and this discourteous knight
+    Doe trye our valour's force.
+
+  Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept,
+    And aye her heart was woe,
+  While twixt her love and the carlish knight
+    Past many a baleful blowe.
+
+  The Child of Elle hee fought so well,
+    As his weapon he waved amaine,
+  That soone he had slaine the carlish knight,
+    And layd him upon the plaine.
+
+  And nowe the baron and all his men
+    Full fast approached nye:
+  Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe
+    Twere nowe no boote to flye.
+
+  Her lover he put his horne to his mouth,
+    And blew both loud and shrill,
+  And soone he saw his owne merry men
+    Come ryding over the hill.
+
+  "Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baròn,
+    I pray thee hold thy hand,
+  Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts
+    Fast knit in true love's band.
+
+  Thy daughter I have dearly loved
+    Full long and many a day;
+  But with such love as holy kirke
+    Hath freelye sayd wee may.
+
+  O give consent, shee may be mine,
+    And blesse a faithfull paire:
+  My lands and livings are not small,
+    My house and lineage faire:
+
+  My mother she was an earl's daughtèr,
+    And a noble knyght my sire--
+  The baron he frowned, and turn'd away
+    With mickle dole and ire.
+
+  Fair Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept,
+    And did all tremblinge stand:
+  At lengthe she sprang upon her knee,
+    And held his lifted hand.
+
+  Pardon, my lorde and father deare,
+    This faire yong knyght and mee:
+  Trust me, but for the carlish knyght,
+    I never had fled from thee.
+
+  Oft have you called your Emmeline
+    Your darling and your joye;
+  O let not then your harsh resolves
+    Your Emmeline destroye.
+
+  The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke,
+    And turned his heade asyde
+  To whipe awaye the starting teare
+    He proudly strave to hyde.
+
+  In deepe revolving thought he stoode,
+    And mused a little space;
+  Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounde,
+    With many a fond embrace.
+
+  Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd,
+    And gave her lillye white hand;
+  Here take my deare and only child,
+    And with her half my land:
+
+  Thy father once mine honour wrongde
+    In dayes of youthful pride;
+  Do thou the injurye repayre
+    In fondnesse for thy bride.
+
+  And as thou love her, and hold her deare,
+    Heaven prosper thee and thine:
+  And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee,
+    My lovelye Emmeline.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+
+CHILD WATERS
+
+
+  Childe Waters in his stable stoode
+    And stroakt his milke white steede:
+  To him a fayre yonge ladye came
+    As ever ware womans weede.
+
+  Sayes, Christ you save, good Childe Waters;
+    Sayes, Christ you save, and see:
+  My girdle of gold that was too longe,
+    Is now too short for mee.
+
+  And all is with one chyld of yours,
+    I feel sturre att my side:
+  My gowne of greene it is too straighte;
+    Before, it was too wide.
+
+  If the child be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd,
+    Be mine, as you tell mee;
+  Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    Take them your owne to bee.
+
+  If the childe be mine, fair Ellen, he sayd,
+    Be mine, as you doe sweare;
+  Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    And make that child your heyre.
+
+  Shee saies, I had rather have one kisse,
+    Child Waters, of thy mouth;
+  Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    That laye by north and south.
+
+  And I had rather have one twinkling,
+    Childe Waters, of thine ee;
+  Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    To take them mine owne to bee.
+
+  To morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde
+    Farr into the north countrie;
+  The fairest lady that I can find,
+    Ellen, must goe with mee.
+
+  'Thoughe I am not that lady fayre,
+    'Yet let me go with thee:'
+  And ever I pray you, Child Watèrs,
+    Your foot-page let me bee.
+
+  If you will my foot-page be, Ellen,
+    As you doe tell to mee;
+  Then you must cut your gowne of greene,
+    An inch above your knee:
+
+  Soe must you doe your yellow lockes,
+    An inch above your ee:
+  You must tell no man what is my name;
+    My foot-page then you shall bee.
+
+  Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode,
+    Ran barefoote by his side;
+  Yett was he never soe courteous a knighte,
+    To say, Ellen, will you ryde?
+
+  Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode,
+    Ran barefoote thorow the broome;
+  Yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte,
+    To say, put on your shoone.
+
+  Ride softlye, shee sayd, O Childe Waters,
+    Why doe you ryde soe fast?
+  The childe, which is no mans but thine,
+    My bodye itt will brast.
+
+  Hee sayth, seeth thou yonder water, Ellen,
+    That flows from bank to brimme?--
+  I trust to God, O Child Waters,
+    You never will see mee swimme.
+
+  But when shee came to the waters side,
+    Shee sayled to the chinne:
+  Except the Lord of heaven be my speed,
+    Now must I learne to swimme.
+
+  The salt waters bare up her clothes;
+    Our Ladye bare upp her chinne:
+  Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord,
+    To see faire Ellen swimme.
+
+  And when shee over the water was,
+    Shee then came to his knee:
+  He said, Come hither, thou fair Ellèn,
+    Loe yonder what I see.
+
+  Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?
+    Of redd gold shines the yate;
+  Of twenty foure faire ladyes there,
+    The fairest is my mate.
+
+  Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?
+    Of redd gold shines the towre:
+  There are twenty four fair ladyes there,
+    The fairest is my paramoure.
+
+  I see the hall now, Child Waters,
+    Of redd golde shines the yate:
+  God give you good now of yourselfe,
+    And of your worthye mate.
+
+  I see the hall now, Child Waters,
+    Of redd gold shines the towre:
+  God give you good now of yourselfe,
+    And of your paramoure.
+
+  There twenty four fayre ladyes were
+    A playing att the ball:
+  And Ellen the fairest ladye there,
+    Must bring his steed to the stall.
+
+  There twenty four fayre ladyes were
+    A playinge at the chesse;
+  And Ellen the fayrest ladye there,
+    Must bring his horse to gresse.
+
+  And then bespake Childe Waters sister,
+    These were the wordes said shee:
+  You have the prettyest foot-page, brother,
+    That ever I saw with mine ee.
+
+  But that his bellye it is soe bigg,
+    His girdle goes wonderous hie:
+  And let him, I pray you, Childe Watères,
+    Goe into the chamber with mee.
+
+  It is not fit for a little foot-page,
+    That has run throughe mosse and myre,
+  To go into the chamber with any ladye,
+    That weares soe riche attyre.
+
+  It is more meete for a litle foot-page,
+    That has run throughe mosse and myre,
+  To take his supper upon his knee,
+    And sitt downe by the kitchen fyer.
+
+  But when they had supped every one,
+    To bedd they tooke theyr waye:
+  He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page,
+    And hearken what I saye.
+
+  Goe thee downe into yonder towne,
+    And low into the street;
+  The fayrest ladye that thou can finde,
+
+    Hyer her in mine armes to sleepe,
+  And take her up in thine armes twaine,
+    For filinge of her feete.
+
+  Ellen is gone into the towne,
+    And low into the streete:
+  The fairest ladye that she cold find,
+    Shee hyred in his armes to sleepe;
+  And tooke her up in her armes twayne,
+    For filing of her feete.
+
+  I pray you nowe, good Child Watèrs,
+    Let mee lye at your bedds feete:
+  For there is noe place about this house,
+    Where I may 'saye a sleepe.
+
+  'He gave her leave, and faire Ellèn
+    'Down at his beds feet laye:'
+  This done the nighte drove on apace,
+    And when it was neare the daye,
+
+  Hee sayd, Rise up, my litle foot-page,
+    Give my steede corne and haye;
+  And soe doe thou the good black oats,
+    To carry mee better awaye.
+
+  Up then rose the faire Ellèn,
+    And gave his steede corne and hay:
+  And soe shee did the good blacke oats,
+    To carry him the better away.
+
+  Shee leaned her backe to the manger side,
+    And grievouslye did groane:
+  Shee leaned her backe to the manger side,
+    And there shee made her moane.
+
+  And that beheard his mother deere,
+    Shee heard her there monand.
+  Shee sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Watèrs,
+    I think thee a cursed man.
+
+  For in thy stable is a ghost,
+    That grievouslye doth grone:
+  Or else some woman laboures of childe,
+    She is soe woe-begone.
+
+  Up then rose Childe Waters soon,
+    And did on his shirte of silke;
+  And then he put on his other clothes,
+    On his body as white as milke.
+
+  And when he came to the stable dore,
+    Full still there he did stand,
+  That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellèn
+    Howe shee made her monànd.
+
+  Shee sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deere child,
+    Lullabye, dere child, dere;
+  I wold thy father were a king,
+    Thy mother layd on a biere.
+
+  Peace now, he said, good faire Ellèn,
+    Be of good cheere, I praye;
+  And the bridal and the churching both
+    Shall bee upon one day.
+
+
+
+
+[Image]
+
+KING EDWARD IV & THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH
+
+
+  In summer time, when leaves grow greene,
+     And blossoms bedecke the tree,
+  King Edward wolde a hunting ryde,
+    Some pastime for to see.
+
+  With hawke and hounde he made him bowne,
+    With horne, and eke with bowe;
+  To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye,
+    With all his lordes a rowe.
+
+  And he had ridden ore dale and downe
+    By eight of clocke in the day,
+  When he was ware of a bold tannèr,
+    Come ryding along the waye.
+
+  A fayre russet coat the tanner had on
+    Fast buttoned under his chin,
+  And under him a good cow-hide,
+    And a marc of four shilling.
+
+  Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all,
+    Under the grene wood spraye;
+  And I will wend to yonder fellowe,
+    To weet what he will saye.
+
+  God speede, God speede thee, said our king.
+    Thou art welcome, Sir, sayd hee.
+  "The readyest waye to Drayton Basset
+    I praye thee to shew to mee."
+
+  "To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe,
+    Fro the place where thou dost stand?
+  The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto,
+    Turne in upon thy right hand."
+
+  That is an unreadye waye, sayd our king,
+    Thou doest but jest, I see;
+  Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye,
+    And I pray thee wend with mee.
+
+  Away with a vengeance! quoth the tanner:
+    I hold thee out of thy witt:
+  All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare,
+    And I am fasting yett.
+
+  "Go with me downe to Drayton Basset,
+    No daynties we will spare;
+  All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best,
+    And I will paye thy fare."
+
+  Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde,
+    Thou payest no fare of mine:
+  I trowe I've more nobles in my purse,
+    Than thou hast pence in thine.
+
+  God give thee joy of them, sayd the king,
+    And send them well to priefe.
+  The tanner wolde faine have beene away,
+    For he weende he had beene a thiefe.
+
+  What art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellowe,
+    Of thee I am in great feare,
+  For the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back,
+    Might beseeme a lord to weare.
+
+  I never stole them, quoth our king,
+    I tell you, Sir, by the roode.
+  "Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth,
+    And standest in midds of thy goode."
+
+  What tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge,
+    As you ryde farre and neare?
+  "I heare no tydinges, Sir, by the masse,
+    But that cowe-hides are deare."
+
+  "Cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those?
+     I marvell what they bee?"
+  What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd;
+    I carry one under mee.
+
+  What craftsman art thou, said the king,
+    I pray thee tell me trowe.
+  "I am a barker, Sir, by my trade;
+    Nowe tell me what art thou?"
+
+  I am a poor courtier, Sir, quoth he,
+    That am forth of service worne;
+  And faine I wolde thy prentise bee,
+    Thy cunninge for to learne.
+
+  Marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde,
+    That thou my prentise were:
+  Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne
+    By fortye shilling a yere.
+
+  Yet one thinge wolde I, sayd our king,
+    If thou wilt not seeme strange:
+  Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare,
+    Yet with thee I fain wold change.
+
+  "Why if with me thou faine wilt change,
+    As change full well maye wee,
+  By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe
+    I will have some boot of thee."
+
+  That were against reason, sayd the king,
+    I sweare, so mote I thee:
+  My horse is better than thy mare,
+    And that thou well mayst see.
+
+  "Yea, Sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild,
+    And softly she will fare:
+  Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss;
+    Aye skipping here and theare."
+
+  What boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd;
+    Now tell me in this stound.
+  "Noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye,
+    But a noble in gold so round.
+
+  "Here's twentye groates of white moneye,
+    Sith thou will have it of mee."
+  I would have sworne now, quoth the tanner,
+    Thou hadst not had one pennie.
+
+  But since we two have made a change,
+    A change we must abide,
+  Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare,
+    Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.
+
+  I will not have it, sayd the kynge,
+    I sweare, so mought I thee;
+  Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare,
+    If thou woldst give it to mee.
+
+  The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide,
+    That of the cow was bilt;
+  And threwe it upon the king's sadelle,
+    That was soe fayrelye gilte.
+  "Now help me up, thou fine fellowe,
+    'Tis time that I were gone:
+  When I come home to Gyllian my wife,
+    Sheel say I am a gentilmon."
+
+  The king he tooke him up by the legge;
+    The tanner a f----- lett fall.
+  Nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the king,
+    Thy courtesye is but small.
+
+  When the tanner he was in the kinges sadèlle,
+    And his foote in the stirrup was;
+  He marvelled greatlye in his minde,
+    Whether it were golde or brass.
+
+  But when the steede saw the cows taile wagge,
+    And eke the blacke cowe-horne;
+  He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne,
+    As the devill had him borne.
+
+  The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat,
+    And held by the pummil fast:
+  At length the tanner came tumbling downe;
+    His necke he had well-nye brast.
+
+  Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd,
+    With mee he shall not byde.
+  "My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe,
+    But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide.
+
+  Yet if againe thou faine woldst change,
+    As change full well may wee,
+  By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tannèr,
+    I will have some boote of thee."
+
+  What boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd,
+    Nowe tell me in this stounde.
+  "Noe pence nor halfpence, Sir, by my faye,
+    But I will have twentye pound."
+
+  "Here's twentye groates out of my purse;
+    And twentye I have of thine:
+  And I have one more, which we will spend
+    Together at the wine."
+
+  The king set a bugle home to his mouthe,
+    And blewe both loude and shrille:
+  And soone came lords, and soone came knights,
+    Fast ryding over the hille.
+
+  Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde,
+    That ever I sawe this daye!
+  Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes     Will beare my
+cowe-hide away.
+
+  They are no thieves, the king replyde,
+    I sweare, soe mote I thee:
+  But they are the lords of the north countrèy,
+    Here come to hunt with mee.
+
+  And soone before our king they came,
+    And knelt downe on the grounde:
+  Then might the tanner have beene awaye,
+    He had lever than twentye pounde.
+
+  A coller, a coller, here: sayd the king,
+    A coller he loud gan crye:
+  Then woulde he lever than twentye pound,
+    He had not beene so nighe.
+
+  A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd,
+    I trowe it will breed sorrowe:
+  After a coller cometh a halter,
+    I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrowe.
+
+  Be not afraid, tanner, said our king;
+    I tell thee, so mought I thee,
+  Lo here I make thee the best esquire
+    That is in the North countrie.
+
+  For Plumpton-parke I will give thee,
+    With tenements faire beside:
+  'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,
+    To maintaine thy good cowe-hide.
+
+  Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde,
+    For the favour thou hast me showne;
+  If ever thou comest to merry Tamwòrth,
+    Neates leather shall clout thy shoen.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+
+
+  The king sits in Dumferling toune,
+    Drinking the blude-reid wine:
+  O quhar will I get guid sailòr,
+    To sail this schip of mine.
+
+  Up and spak an eldern knicht,
+    Sat at the kings richt kne:
+  Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailòr,
+    That sails upon the se.
+
+  The king has written a braid letter,
+    And signd it wi' his hand;
+  And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
+    Was walking on the sand.
+
+  The first line that Sir Patrick red,
+    A loud lauch lauched he:
+  The next line that Sir Patrick red,
+    The teir blinded his ee.
+
+  O quha is this has don this deid,
+    This ill deid don to me;
+  To send me out this time o' the zeir,
+    To sail upon the se.
+
+  Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,
+    Our guid schip sails the morne,
+  O say na sae, my master deir,
+    For I feir a deadlie storme.
+
+  Late late yestreen I saw the new moone
+    Wi' the auld moone in hir arme;
+  And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
+    That we will com to harme.
+
+  O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
+    To weet their cork-heild schoone;
+  Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
+    Thair hats they swam aboone.
+
+  O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit
+    Wi' thair fans into their hand,
+  Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens
+    Cum sailing to the land.
+
+  O lang, lang, may the ladies stand
+    Wi' thair gold kems in their hair,
+  Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
+    For they'll se thame na mair.
+
+  Have owre, have owre to Aberdour,
+    It's fiftie fadom deip:
+  And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens,
+    Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.
+
+
+
+
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+
+
+  It was intill a pleasant time,
+    Upon a simmer's day,
+  The noble Earl of Mar's daughter
+  Went forth to sport and play.
+
+  As thus she did amuse hersell,
+    Below a green aik tree,
+  There she saw a sprightly doo
+    Set on a tower sae hie.
+
+  "O cow-me-doo, my love sae true,
+    If ye'll come down to me,
+  Ye 'se hae a cage o guid red gowd
+    Instead o simple tree:
+
+  "I'll put growd hingers roun your cage,
+    And siller roun your wa;
+  I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird
+    As ony o them a'."
+
+  But she hadnae these words well spoke,
+    Nor yet these words well said,
+  Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower
+    And lighted on her head.
+
+  Then she has brought this pretty bird
+    Hame to her bowers and ba,
+  And made him shine as fair a bird
+    As ony o them a'.
+
+  When day was gane, and night was come,
+    About the evening tide,
+  This lady spied a sprightly youth
+    Stand straight up by her side.
+
+  "From whence came ye, young man?" she said;
+    "That does surprise me sair;
+  My door was bolted right secure,
+    What way hae ye come here?"
+
+  "O had your tongue, ye lady fair,
+    Lat a' your folly be;
+  Mind ye not on your turtle-doo
+    Last day ye brought wi thee?"
+
+  "O tell me mair, young man," she said,
+    "This does surprise me now;
+  What country hae ye come frae?
+    What pedigree are you?"
+
+  "My mither lives on foreign isles,
+    She has nae mair but me;
+  She is a queen o wealth and state,
+    And birth and high degree.
+
+  "Likewise well skilld in magic spells,
+    As ye may plainly see,
+  And she transformd me to yon shape,
+    To charm such maids as thee.
+
+  "I am a doo the live-lang day,
+    A sprightly youth at night;
+  This aye gars me appear mair fair
+    In a fair maiden's sight.
+
+  "And it was but this verra day
+    That I came ower the sea;
+  Your lovely face did me enchant;
+    I'll live and dee wi thee."
+
+  "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,
+    Nae mair frae me ye 'se gae;
+  That's never my intent, my luve,
+    As ye said, it shall be sae."
+
+  "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,
+    It's time to gae to bed;"
+  "Wi a' my heart, my dear marrow,
+    It's be as ye hae said."
+
+  Then he has staid in bower wi her
+    For sax lang years and ane,
+  Till sax young sons to him she bare,
+    And the seventh she's brought hame.
+
+  But aye as ever a child was born
+    He carried them away,
+  And brought them to his mither's care,
+    As fast as he coud fly.
+
+  Thus he has staid in bower wi her
+    For twenty years and three;
+  There came a lord o high renown
+    To court this fair ladie.
+
+  But still his proffer she refused,
+    And a' his presents too;
+  Says, I'm content to live alane
+    Wi my bird, Cow-me-doo.
+
+  Her father sware a solemn oath
+    Amang the nobles all,
+  "The morn, or ere I eat or drink,
+    This bird I will gar kill."
+
+  The bird was sitting in his cage,
+    And heard what they did say;
+  And when he found they were dismist,
+    Says, Wae's me for this day!
+
+  "Before that I do langer stay,
+    And thus to be forlorn,
+  I'll gang unto my mither's bower,
+    Where I was bred and born."
+
+  Then Cow-me-doo took flight and flew
+    Beyond the raging sea,
+  And lighted near his mither's castle,
+    On a tower o gowd sae hie.
+
+  As his mither was wauking out,
+    To see what she coud see,
+  And there she saw her little son,
+    Set on the tower sae hie.
+
+  "Get dancers here to dance," she said,
+    "And minstrells for to play;
+  For here's my young son, Florentine,
+    Come here wi me to stay."
+
+  "Get nae dancers to dance, mither,
+    Nor minstrells for to play,
+  For the mither o my seven sons,
+    The morn's her wedding-day."
+
+  "O tell me, tell me, Florentine,
+    Tell me, and tell me true,
+  Tell me this day without a flaw,
+    What I will do for you."
+
+  "Instead of dancers to dance, mither,
+    Or minstrells for to play,
+  Turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men
+    Like storks in feathers gray;
+
+  "My seven sons in seven swans,
+    Aboon their heads to flee;
+  And I mysell a gay gos-hawk,
+    A bird o high degree."
+
+  Then sichin said the queen hersell,
+    "That thing's too high for me;"
+  But she applied to an auld woman,
+    Who had mair skill than she.
+
+  Instead o dancers to dance a dance,
+    Or minstrells for to play,
+  Four-and-twenty wall-wight men
+    Turnd birds o feathers gray;
+
+  Her seven sons in seven swans,
+    Aboon their heads to flee;
+  And he himsell a gay gos-hawk,
+    A bird o high degree.
+
+  This flock o birds took flight and flew
+    Beyond the raging sea,
+  And landed near the Earl Mar's castle,
+    Took shelter in every tree.
+
+  They were a flock o pretty birds,
+    Right comely to be seen;
+  The people viewed them wi surprise,
+    As they dancd on the green.
+
+  These birds ascended frae the tree
+    And lighted on the ha,
+  And at the last wi force did flee
+    Amang the nobles a'.
+
+  The storks there seized some o the men,
+    They coud neither fight nor flee;
+  The swans they bound the bride's best man
+    Below a green aik tree.
+
+  They lighted next on maidens fair,
+    Then on the bride's own head,
+  And wi the twinkling o an ee
+    The bride and them were fled.
+
+  There's ancient men at weddings been
+    For sixty years or more,
+  But sic a curious wedding-day
+    They never saw before.
+
+  For naething coud the companie do.
+    Nor naething coud they say
+  But they saw a flock o pretty birds
+    That took their bride away.
+
+  When that Earl Mar he came to know
+    Where his dochter did stay,
+  He signd a bond o unity,
+    And visits now they pay.
+
+
+
+
+EDWARD, EDWARD.
+
+
+  Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid,
+                                Edward, Edward?
+  Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid?
+            And quhy sae sad gang zee, O?
+  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
+                                 Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid:
+                   And I had nae mair bot hee, O.
+
+  Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
+                                  Edward, Edward.
+  Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
+                    My deir son I tell thee, O.
+  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
+                                  Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
+                   That erst was sae fair and free, O.
+
+  Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
+                                  Edward, Edward;
+  Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
+                   Sum other dule ze drie, O.
+  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
+                                  Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
+                   Alas! and wae is mee, O!
+
+  And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that,
+                               Edward, Edward?
+  And quhatten penance will ze drie for that?
+                 My deir son, now tell mee, O.
+  He set my feit in zonder boat,
+                                Mither, mither:
+  He set my feit in zonder boat,
+                    And He fare ovir the sea, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
+                                 Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
+                  That were sae fair to see, O?
+  He let thame stand til they doun fa',
+                                   Mither, mither:
+  He let thame stand til they doun fa',
+                    For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
+                                      Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
+                      Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O?
+  The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,
+                                     Mither, mither;
+  The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,
+                   For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir,
+                                 Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir?
+                    My deir son, now tell me, O.
+  The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir,
+                                 Mither, mither:
+  The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir,
+                 Sic counseils ze gave to me, O.
+
+
+
+KING LEIR & HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+
+
+  King Leir once ruled in this land
+    With princely power and peace;
+  And had all things with hearts content,
+    That might his joys increase.
+  Amongst those things that nature gave,
+    Three daughters fair had he,
+  So princely seeming beautiful,
+    As fairer could not be.
+
+  So on a time it pleas'd the king
+    A question thus to move,
+  Which of his daughters to his grace
+    Could shew the dearest love:
+  For to my age you bring content,
+    Quoth he, then let me hear,
+  Which of you three in plighted troth
+    The kindest will appear.
+
+  To whom the eldest thus began;
+    Dear father, mind, quoth she,
+  Before your face, to do you good,
+    My blood shall render'd be:
+  And for your sake my bleeding heart
+    Shall here be cut in twain,
+  Ere that I see your reverend age
+    The smallest grief sustain.
+
+  And so will I, the second said;
+    Dear father, for your sake,
+  The worst of all extremities
+    I'll gently undertake:
+  And serve your highness night and day
+    With diligence and love;
+  That sweet content and quietness
+    Discomforts may remove.
+
+  In doing so, you glad my soul,
+    The aged king reply'd;
+  But what sayst thou, my youngest girl,
+    How is thy love ally'd?
+  My love (quoth young Cordelia then)
+    Which to your grace I owe,
+  Shall be the duty of a child,
+    And that is all I'll show.
+
+  And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he,
+    Than doth thy duty bind?
+  I well perceive thy love is small,
+    When as no more I find.
+  Henceforth I banish thee my court,
+    Thou art no child of mine;
+  Nor any part of this my realm
+    By favour shall be thine.
+
+  Thy elder sisters loves are more
+    Then well I can demand,
+  To whom I equally bestow
+    My kingdome and my land,
+  My pompal state and all my goods,
+    That lovingly I may
+  With those thy sisters be maintain'd
+    Until my dying day.
+
+  Thus flattering speeches won renown,
+    By these two sisters here;
+  The third had causeless banishment,
+    Yet was her love more dear:
+  For poor Cordelia patiently
+    Went wandring up and down,
+  Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,
+    Through many an English town:
+
+  Untill at last in famous France
+    She gentler fortunes found;
+  Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd
+    The fairest on the ground:
+  Where when the king her virtues heard,
+    And this fair lady seen,
+  With full consent of all his court
+    He made his wife and queen.
+
+  Her father king Leir this while
+    With his two daughters staid:
+  Forgetful of their promis'd loves,
+    Full soon the same decay'd;
+  And living in queen Ragan's court,
+    The eldest of the twain,
+  She took from him his chiefest means,
+    And most of all his train.
+
+  For whereas twenty men were wont
+    To wait with bended knee:
+  She gave allowance but to ten,
+    And after scarce to three;
+  Nay, one she thought too much for him;
+    So took she all away,
+  In hope that in her court, good king,
+    He would no longer stay.
+
+  Am I rewarded thus, quoth he,
+    In giving all I have
+  Unto my children, and to beg
+    For what I lately gave?
+  I'll go unto my Gonorell:
+    My second child, I know,
+  Will be more kind and pitiful,
+    And will relieve my woe.
+
+  Full fast he hies then to her court;
+    Where when she heard his moan
+  Return'd him answer, That she griev'd
+    That all his means were gone:
+  But no way could relieve his wants;
+    Yet if that he would stay
+  Within her kitchen, he should have
+    What scullions gave away.
+
+  When he had heard, with bitter tears,
+    He made his answer then;
+  In what I did let me be made
+    Example to all men.
+  I will return again, quoth he,
+    Unto my Ragan's court;
+  She will not use me thus, I hope,
+    But in a kinder sort.
+
+  Where when he came, she gave command
+    To drive him thence away:
+  When he was well within her court
+    (She said) he would not stay.
+  Then back again to Gonorell
+    The woeful king did hie,
+  That in her kitchen he might have
+    What scullion boy set by.
+
+  But there of that he was deny'd,
+    Which she had promis'd late:
+  For once refusing, he should not
+    Come after to her gate.
+  Thus twixt his daughters, for relief
+    He wandred up and down;
+  Being glad to feed on beggars food,
+    That lately wore a crown.
+
+  And calling to remembrance then
+    His youngest daughters words,
+  That said the duty of a child
+    Was all that love affords:
+  But doubting to repair to her,
+    Whom he had banish'd so,
+  Grew frantick mad; for in his mind
+    He bore the wounds of woe:
+
+  Which made him rend his milk-white locks,
+    And tresses from his head,
+  And all with blood bestain his cheeks,
+    With age and honour spread.
+  To hills and woods and watry founts
+    He made his hourly moan,
+  Till hills and woods and sensless things,
+    Did seem to sigh and groan.
+
+  Even thus possest with discontents,
+    He passed o're to France,
+  In hopes from fair Cordelia there,
+    To find some gentler chance;
+  Most virtuous dame! which when she heard,
+    Of this her father's grief,
+  As duty bound, she quickly sent
+    Him comfort and relief:
+  And by a train of noble peers,
+    In brave and gallant sort,
+  She gave in charge he should be brought
+    To Aganippus' court;
+  Whose royal king, with noble mind
+    So freely gave consent,
+  To muster up his knights at arms,
+    To fame and courage bent.
+
+  And so to England came with speed,
+    To repossesse king Leir
+  And drive his daughters from their thrones
+    By his Cordelia dear.
+  Where she, true-hearted noble queen,
+    Was in the battel slain;
+  Yet he, good king, in his old days,
+    Possest his crown again.
+
+  But when he heard Cordelia's death,
+    Who died indeed for love
+  Of her dear father, in whose cause
+    She did this battle move;
+  He swooning fell upon her breast,
+    From whence he never parted:
+  But on her bosom left his life,
+    That was so truly hearted.
+
+  The lords and nobles when they saw
+    The end of these events,
+  The other sisters unto death
+    They doomed by consents;
+  And being dead, their crowns they left
+    Unto the next of kin:
+  Thus have you seen the fall of pride,
+    And disobedient sin.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+HYND HORN
+
+
+  "Hynde Horn's bound, love, and Hynde Horn's free;
+  Whare was ye born? or frae what cuntrie?"
+
+  "In gude greenwud whare I was born,
+  And all my friends left me forlorn.
+
+  "I gave my love a gay gowd wand,
+  That was to rule oure all Scotland.
+
+  "My love gave me a silver ring,
+  That was to rule abune aw thing.
+
+  "Whan that ring keeps new in hue,
+  Ye may ken that your love loves you.
+
+  "Whan that ring turns pale and wan,
+  Ye may ken that your love loves anither man."
+
+  He hoisted up his sails, and away sailed he
+  Till he cam to a foreign cuntree.
+
+  Whan he lookit to his ring, it was turnd pale and wan;
+  Says, I wish I war at hame again.
+
+  He hoisted up his sails, and hame sailed he
+  Until he cam till his ain cuntree.
+
+  The first ane that he met with,
+  It was with a puir auld beggar-man.
+
+  "What news? what news, my puir auld man?
+  What news hae ye got to tell to me?"
+
+  "Na news, na news," the puir man did say,
+  "But this is our queen's wedding-day."
+
+  "Ye'll lend me your begging-weed,
+  And I'll lend you my riding-steed."
+    "My begging-weed is na for thee,
+  Your riding-steed is na for me."
+
+  He has changed wi the puir auld beggar-man.
+
+  "What is the way that ye use to gae?
+  And what are the words that ye beg wi?"
+
+  "Whan ye come to yon high hill,
+  Ye'll draw your bent bow nigh until.
+
+  "Whan ye come to yon town-end,
+  Ye'll lat your bent bow low fall doun.
+
+  "Ye'll seek meat for St Peter, ask for St Paul,
+  And seek for the sake of your Hynde Horn all.
+
+  "But tak ye frae nane o them aw
+  Till ye get frae the bonnie bride hersel O."
+
+  Whan he cam to yon high hill,
+  He drew his bent bow nigh until.
+
+  And when he cam to yon toun-end,
+  He loot his bent bow low fall doun.
+
+  He sought for St Peter, he askd for St Paul,
+  And he sought for the sake of his Hynde Horn all.
+
+  But he took na frae ane o them aw
+  Till he got frae the bonnie bride hersel O.
+
+  The bride cam tripping doun the stair,
+  Wi the scales o red gowd on her hair.
+
+  Wi a glass o red wine in her hand,
+  To gie to the puir beggar-man.
+
+  Out he drank his glass o wine,
+  Into it he dropt the ring.
+
+  "Got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land,
+  Or got ye't aff a drownd man's hand?"
+
+  "I got na't by sea, I got na't by land,
+  Nor gat I it aff a drownd man's hand;
+
+  "But I got it at my wooing,
+  And I'll gie it to your wedding."
+
+  "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my head,
+  I'll follow you, and beg my bread.
+
+  "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my hair,
+  I'll follow you for evermair."
+
+  She has tane the scales o gowd frae her head,
+  She's followed him, to beg her bread.
+
+  She has tane the scales o gowd frae her hair,
+  And she has followd him evermair.
+
+  Atween the kitchen and the ha,
+  There he loot his cloutie cloak fa.
+
+  The red gowd shined oure them aw,
+  And the bride frae the bridegroom was stown awa.
+
+
+
+
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+
+
+  Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,
+  Because he fought for Freedom and the stricken Negro slave;
+  Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,
+  But his soul is marching on.
+
+                           _Chorus_
+
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       His soul is marching on.
+
+  He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true;
+  His little patriot band into a noble army grew;
+  He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true,
+  And his soul is marching on.
+
+  'Twas not till John Brown lost his life, arose in all its might,
+  The army of the Union men that won the fearful fight;
+  But tho' the glad event, oh! it never met his sight,
+  Still his soul is marching on.
+
+  John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above,
+  Where live the happy spirits in their harmony and love,
+  John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above,
+  And his soul is marching on.
+
+
+
+ TIPPERARY
+
+
+  Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day,
+  As the streets are paved with gold, sure everyone was gay;
+  Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square,
+  Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:--
+
+_Chorus_
+
+  "It's a long way to Tipperary,
+  It's a long way to go;
+  It's a long way to Tipperary,
+  To the sweetest girl I know!
+  Good-bye Piccadilly,
+  Farewell, Leicester Square,
+  It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
+  But my heart's right there!"
+
+  Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O',
+  Saying, "Should you not receive it, write and let me know!
+  "If I make mistakes in 'spelling,' Molly dear,' said he,
+  "Remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me."
+
+  Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy O',
+  Saying, "Mike Maloney wants to marry me, and so
+  Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you'll be to blame,
+  For love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the same!"
+
+
+
+
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+
+
+  There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,
+    And he was a squires son:
+  He loved the bayliffes daughter deare,
+    That lived in Islington.
+
+  Yet she was coye, and would not believe
+    That he did love her soe,
+  Noe nor at any time would she
+    Any countenance to him showe.
+
+  But when his friendes did understand
+    His fond and foolish minde,
+  They sent him up to faire London
+    An apprentice for to binde.
+
+  And when he had been seven long yeares,
+    And never his love could see:
+  Many a teare have I shed for her sake,
+    When she little thought of mee.
+
+  Then all the maids of Islington
+    Went forth to sport and playe,
+  All but the bayliffes daughter deare;
+    She secretly stole awaye.
+
+  She pulled off her gowne of greene,
+    And put on ragged attire,
+  And to faire London she would goe
+    Her true love to enquire.
+
+  And as she went along the high road,
+    The weather being hot and drye,
+  She sat her downe upon a green bank,
+    And her true love came riding bye.
+
+  She started up, with a colour soe redd,
+    Catching hold of his bridle-reine;
+  One penny, one penny, kind Sir, she sayd,
+    Will ease me of much paine.
+
+  Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,
+    Praye tell me where you were borne:
+  At Islington, kind Sir, sayd shee,
+    Where I have had many a scorne.
+
+  I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,
+    O tell me, whether you knowe
+  The bayliffes daughter of Islington:
+    She is dead, Sir, long agoe.
+
+  If she be dead, then take my horse,
+    My saddle and bridle also;
+  For I will into some far countrye,
+    Where noe man shall me knowe.
+
+  O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe,
+    She standeth by thy side;
+  She is here alive, she is not dead,
+    And readye to be thy bride.
+
+  O farewell griefe, and welcome joye,
+    Ten thousand times therefore;
+  For nowe I have founde mine owne true love,
+    Whom I thought I should never see more.
+
+
+
+
+THE THREE RAVENS
+
+
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+    Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+    With a downe
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+  They were as blacke as they might be
+    With a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe
+
+  The one of them said to his mate,
+  "Where shall we our breakefast take?"
+
+  "Downe in yonder greene field,
+  There lies a knight slain vnder his shield.
+
+  "His hounds they lie downe at his feete,
+  So well they can their master keepe.
+
+  "His haukes they flie so eagerly,
+  There's no fowle dare him come nie."
+
+  Downe there comes a fallow doe,
+  As great with yong as she might goe.
+
+  She lift up his bloudy hed,
+  And kist his wounds that were so red.
+
+  She got him up upon her backe,
+  And carried him to earthen lake.
+
+  She buried him before the prime,
+  She was dead herselfe ere even-song time.
+
+  God send every gentleman,
+  Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman.
+
+
+
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+
+
+  The pauky auld Carle come ovir the lee
+  Wi' mony good-eens and days to mee,
+  Saying, Good wife, for zour courtesie,
+    Will ze lodge a silly poor man?
+  The night was cauld, the carle was wat,
+  And down azont the ingle he sat;
+  My dochtors shoulders he gan to clap,
+    And cadgily ranted and sang.
+
+  O wow! quo he, were I as free,
+  As first when I saw this countrie,
+  How blyth and merry wad I bee!
+    And I wad nevir think lang.
+  He grew canty, and she grew fain;
+  But little did her auld minny ken
+  What thir slee twa togither were say'n,
+    When wooing they were sa thrang.
+
+  And O! quo he, ann ze were as black,
+  As evir the crown of your dadyes hat,
+  Tis I wad lay thee by my backe,
+    And awa wi' me thou sould gang.
+  And O! quoth she, ann I were as white,
+  As evir the snaw lay on the dike,
+  Ild dead me braw, and lady-like,
+    And awa with thee Ild gang.
+
+  Between them twa was made a plot;
+  They raise a wee before the cock,
+  And wyliely they shot the lock,
+    And fast to the bent are they gane.
+  Up the morn the auld wife raise,
+  And at her leisure put on her claiths,
+  Syne to the servants bed she gaes
+    To speir for the silly poor man.
+
+  She gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay,
+  The strae was cauld, he was away,
+  She clapt her hands, cryd, Dulefu' day!
+    For some of our geir will be gane.
+  Some ran to coffer, and some to kist,
+  But nought was stown that could be mist.
+  She dancid her lane, cryd, Praise be blest,
+    I have lodgd a leal poor man.
+
+  Since naithings awa, as we can learn,
+  The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn,
+  Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn,
+    And bid her come quickly ben.
+  The servant gaed where the dochter lay,
+  The sheets was cauld, she was away,
+  And fast to her goodwife can say,
+    Shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man.
+
+  O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin,
+  And haste ze, find these traitors agen;
+  For shees be burnt, and hees be slein,
+    The wearyfou gaberlunzie-man.
+  Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit
+  The wife was wood, and out o' her wit;
+  She could na gang, nor yet could sit,
+    But ay did curse and did ban.
+
+  Mean time far hind out owre the lee,
+  For snug in a glen, where nane could see,
+  The twa, with kindlie sport and glee
+    Cut frae a new cheese a whang.
+  The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith,
+  To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith.
+  Quo she, to leave thee, I will laith,
+    My winsome gaberlunzie-man.
+
+  O kend my minny I were wi' zou,
+  Illfardly wad she crook her mou,
+  Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow,
+    Aftir the gaberlunzie-mon.
+  My dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge;
+  And hae na learnt the beggars tonge,
+  To follow me frae toun to toun,
+    And carrie the gaberlunzie on.
+
+  Wi' kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread,
+  And spindles and whorles for them wha need,
+  Whilk is a gentil trade indeed
+    The gaberlunzie to carrie--o.
+  Ill bow my leg and crook my knee,
+  And draw a black clout owre my ee,
+  A criple or blind they will cau me:
+    While we sail sing and be merrie--o.
+
+
+
+
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+
+  There lived a wife at Usher's Well,
+    And a wealthy wife was she;
+  She had three stout and stalwart sons,
+    And sent them oer the sea.
+
+  They hadna been a week from her,
+    A week but barely ane,
+  Whan word came to the carline wife
+    That her three sons were gane.
+
+  They hadna been a week from her,
+    A week but barely three,
+  Whan word came to the carlin wife
+    That her sons she'd never see.
+
+  "I wish the wind may never cease,
+    Nor fashes in the flood,
+  Till my three sons come hame to me,
+    In earthly flesh and blood."
+
+  It fell about the Martinmass,
+    When nights are lang and mirk,
+  The carlin wife's three sons came hame,
+    And their hats were o the birk.
+
+  It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
+    Nor yet in ony sheugh;
+  But at the gates o Paradise,
+     That birk grew fair eneugh.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  "Blow up the fire, my maidens,
+    Bring water from the well;
+  For a' my house shall feast this night,
+    Since my three sons are well."
+
+  And she has made to them a bed,
+    She's made it large and wide,
+  And she's taen her mantle her about,
+    Sat down at the bed-side.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Up then crew the red, red cock,
+    And up and crew the gray;
+  The eldest to the youngest said,
+  'Tis time we were away.
+
+  The cock he hadna crawd but once,
+    And clappd his wings at a',
+  When the youngest to the eldest said,
+    Brother, we must awa.
+
+  "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
+    The channerin worm doth chide;
+  Gin we be mist out o our place,
+    A sair pain we maun bide.
+
+  "Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
+    Fareweel to barn and byre!
+  And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
+    That kindles my mother's fire!"
+
+
+
+
+THE LYE
+
+
+  Goe, soule, the bodies guest,
+    Upon a thanklesse arrant;
+  Feare not to touche the best,
+    The truth shall be thy warrant:
+      Goe, since I needs must dye,
+      And give the world the lye.
+
+  Goe tell the court, it glowes
+    And shines like rotten wood;
+  Goe tell the church it showes
+    What's good, and doth no good:
+      If church and court reply,
+      Then give them both the lye.
+
+  Tell potentates they live
+    Acting by others actions;
+  Not lov'd unlesse they give,
+    Not strong but by their factions;
+      If potentates reply,
+      Give potentates the lye.
+
+  Tell men of high condition,
+    That rule affairs of state,
+  Their purpose is ambition,
+    Their practise onely hate;
+      And if they once reply,
+      Then give them all the lye.
+
+  Tell them that brave it most,
+    They beg for more by spending,
+  Who in their greatest cost
+    Seek nothing but commending;
+      And if they make reply,
+      Spare not to give the lye.
+
+  Tell zeale, it lacks devotion;
+    Tell love, it is but lust;
+  Tell time, it is but motion;
+    Tell flesh, it is but dust;
+      And wish them not reply,
+      For thou must give the lye.
+
+  Tell age, it daily wasteth;
+    Tell honour, how it alters:
+  Tell beauty, how she blasteth;
+    Tell favour, how she falters;
+      And as they shall reply,
+      Give each of them the lye.
+
+  Tell wit, how much it wrangles
+    In tickle points of nicenesse;
+  Tell wisedome, she entangles
+    Herselfe in over-wisenesse;
+      And if they do reply,
+      Straight give them both the lye.
+
+  Tell physicke of her boldnesse;
+    Tell skill, it is pretension;
+  Tell charity of coldness;
+    Tell law, it is contention;
+      And as they yield reply,
+      So give them still the lye.
+
+  Tell fortune of her blindnesse;
+    Tell nature of decay;
+  Tell friendship of unkindnesse;
+    Tell justice of delay:
+      And if they dare reply,
+      Then give them all the lye.
+
+  Tell arts, they have no soundnesse,
+    But vary by esteeming;
+  Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse;
+    And stand too much on seeming:
+      If arts and schooles reply.
+      Give arts and schooles the lye.
+
+  Tell faith, it's fled the citie;
+    Tell how the countrey erreth;
+  Tell, manhood shakes off pitie;
+    Tell, vertue least preferreth:
+      And, if they doe reply,
+      Spare not to give the lye.
+
+  So, when thou hast, as I
+    Commanded thee, done blabbing,
+  Although to give the lye
+    Deserves no less than stabbing,
+      Yet stab at thee who will,
+      No stab the soule can kill.
+
+
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+
+I.
+
+
+  He did not wear his scarlet coat,
+    For blood and wine are red,
+  And blood and wine were on his hands
+    When they found him with the dead,
+  The poor dead woman whom he loved,
+    And murdered in her bed.
+
+  He walked amongst the Trial Men
+    In a suit of shabby grey;
+  A cricket cap was on his head,
+    And his step seemed light and gay;
+  But I never saw a man who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw a man who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    Which prisoners call the sky,
+  And at every drifting cloud that went
+    With sails of silver by.
+
+  I walked, with other souls in pain,
+    Within another ring,
+  And was wondering if the man had done
+    A great or little thing,
+  When a voice behind me whispered low,
+    _"That fellow's got to swing."_
+
+  Dear Christ! the very prison walls
+    Suddenly seemed to reel,
+  And the sky above my head became
+    Like a casque of scorching steel;
+  And, though I was a soul in pain,
+    My pain I could not feel.
+
+  I only knew what hunted thought
+    Quickened his step, and why
+  He looked upon the garish day
+    With such a wistful eye;
+  The man had killed the thing he loved,
+    And so he had to die.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
+    By each let this be heard,
+  Some do it with a bitter look,
+    Some with a flattering word.
+  The coward does it with a kiss,
+    The brave man with a sword!
+
+  Some kill their love when they are young,
+    And some when they are old;
+  Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
+    Some with the hands of Gold:
+  The kindest use a knife, because
+    The dead so soon grow cold.
+
+  Some love too little, some too long,
+    Some sell, and others buy;
+  Some do the deed with many tears,
+    And some without a sigh:
+  For each man kills the thing he loves,
+    Yet each man does not die.
+
+  He does not die a death of shame
+    On a day of dark disgrace,
+  Nor have a noose about his neck,
+    Nor a cloth upon his face,
+  Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
+    Into an empty space.
+
+  He does not sit with silent men
+    Who watch him night and day;
+  Who watch him when he tries to weep,
+    And when he tries to pray;
+  Who watch him lest himself should rob
+    The prison of its prey.
+
+  He does not wake at dawn to see
+    Dread figures throng his room,
+  The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
+    The Sheriff stern with gloom,
+  And the Governor all in shiny black,
+    With the yellow face of Doom.
+
+  He does not rise in piteous haste
+    To put on convict-clothes,
+  While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
+    Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
+  Fingering a watch whose little ticks
+    Are like horrible hammer-blows.
+
+  He does not feel that sickening thirst
+    That sands one's throat, before
+  The hangman with his gardener's gloves
+    Comes through the padded door,
+  And binds one with three leathern thongs,
+    That the throat may thirst no more.
+
+  He does not bend his head to hear
+    The Burial Office read,
+  Nor, while the anguish of his soul
+    Tells him he is not dead,
+  Cross his own coffin, as he moves
+    Into the hideous shed.
+
+  He does not stare upon the air
+    Through a little roof of glass:
+  He does not pray with lips of clay
+    For his agony to pass;
+  Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
+    The kiss of Caiaphas.
+
+
+II
+
+
+  Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard
+    In the suit of shabby grey:
+  His cricket cap was on his head,
+    And his step seemed light and gay,
+  But I never saw a man who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw a man who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    Which prisoners call the sky,
+  And at every wandering cloud that trailed
+    Its ravelled fleeces by.
+
+  He did not wring his hands, as do
+    Those witless men who dare
+  To try to rear the changeling
+    In the cave of black Despair:
+  He only looked upon the sun,
+    And drank the morning air.
+
+  He did not wring his hands nor weep,
+    Nor did he peek or pine,
+  But he drank the air as though it held
+    Some healthful anodyne;
+  With open mouth he drank the sun
+    As though it had been wine!
+
+  And I and all the souls in pain,
+    Who tramped the other ring,
+  Forgot if we ourselves had done
+    A great or little thing,
+  And watched with gaze of dull amaze
+    The man who had to swing.
+
+  For strange it was to see him pass
+    With a step so light and gay,
+  And strange it was to see him look
+    So wistfully at the day,
+  And strange it was to think that he
+    Had such a debt to pay.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
+    That in the spring-time shoot:
+  But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
+    With its adder-bitten root,
+  And, green or dry, a man must die
+    Before it bears its fruit!
+
+  The loftiest place is that seat of grace
+    For which all worldlings try:
+  But who would stand in hempen band
+    Upon a scaffold high,
+  And through a murderer's collar take
+    His last look at the sky?
+
+  It is sweet to dance to violins
+    When Love and Life are fair:
+  To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
+    Is delicate and rare:
+  But it is not sweet with nimble feet
+    To dance upon the air!
+
+  So with curious eyes and sick surmise
+    We watched him day by day,
+  And wondered if each one of us
+    Would end the self-same way,
+  For none can tell to what red Hell
+    His sightless soul may stray.
+
+  At last the dead man walked no more
+    Amongst the Trial Men,
+  And I knew that he was standing up
+    In the black dock's dreadful pen,
+  And that never would I see his face
+    For weal or woe again.
+
+  Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
+    We had crossed each other's way:
+  But we made no sign, we said no word,
+    We had no word to say;
+  For we did not meet in the holy night,
+    But in the shameful day.
+
+  A prison wall was round us both,
+    Two outcast men we were:
+  The world had thrust us from its heart,
+    And God from out His care:
+  And the iron gin that waits for Sin
+    Had caught us in its snare.
+
+
+III.
+
+
+  In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
+    And the dripping wall is high,
+  So it was there he took the air
+    Beneath the leaden sky,
+  And by each side a Warder walked,
+    For fear the man might die.
+
+  Or else he sat with those who watched
+    His anguish night and day;
+  Who watched him when he rose to weep,
+    And when he crouched to pray;
+  Who watched him lest himself should rob
+    Their scaffold of its prey.
+
+  The Governor was strong upon
+    The Regulations Act:
+  The Doctor said that Death was but
+    A scientific fact:
+  And twice a day the Chaplain called,
+    And left a little tract.
+
+  And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
+    And drank his quart of beer:
+  His soul was resolute, and held
+    No hiding-place for fear;
+  He often said that he was glad
+    The hangman's day was near.
+
+  But why he said so strange a thing
+    No warder dared to ask:
+  For he to whom a watcher's doom
+    Is given as his task,
+  Must set a lock upon his lips
+    And make his face a mask.
+
+  Or else he might be moved, and try
+    To comfort or console:
+  And what should Human Pity do
+    Pent up in Murderer's Hole?
+  What word of grace in such a place
+    Could help a brother's soul?
+
+  With slouch and swing around the ring
+    We trod the Fools' Parade!
+  We did not care: we knew we were
+    The Devil's Own Brigade:
+  And shaven head and feet of lead
+    Make a merry masquerade.
+
+  We tore the tarry rope to shreds
+    With blunt and bleeding nails;
+  We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
+    And cleaned the shining rails:
+  And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
+    And clattered with the pails.
+
+  We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
+    We turned the dusty drill:
+  We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
+    And sweated on the mill:
+  But in the heart of every man
+    Terror was lying still.
+
+  So still it lay that every day
+    Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:
+  And we forgot the bitter lot
+    That waits for fool and knave,
+  Till once, as we tramped in from work,
+    We passed an open grave.
+
+  With yawning mouth the yellow hole
+    Gaped for a living thing;
+  The very mud cried out for blood
+    To the thirsty asphalte ring:
+  And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
+    Some prisoner had to swing.
+
+  Right in we went, with soul intent
+    On Death and Dread and Doom:
+  The hangman, with his little bag,
+    Went shuffling through the gloom:
+  And I trembled as I groped my way
+    Into my numbered tomb.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  That night the empty corridors
+    Were full of forms of Fear,
+  And up and down the iron town
+    Stole feet we could not hear,
+  And through the bars that hide the stars
+    White faces seemed to peer.
+
+  He lay as one who lies and dreams
+    In a pleasant meadow-land,
+  The watchers watched him as he slept,
+    And could not understand
+  How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
+    With a hangman close at hand.
+
+  But there is no sleep when men must weep
+    Who never yet have wept:
+  So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave--
+    That endless vigil kept,
+  And through each brain on hands of pain
+    Another's terror crept.
+
+  Alas! it is a fearful thing
+    To feel another's guilt!
+  For, right, within, the Sword of Sin
+    Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
+  And as molten lead were the tears we shed
+    For the blood we had not spilt.
+
+  The warders with their shoes of felt
+    Crept by each padlocked door,
+  And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
+    Grey figures on the floor,
+  And wondered why men knelt to pray
+    Who never prayed before.
+
+  All through the night we knelt and prayed,
+    Mad mourners of a corse!
+  The troubled plumes of midnight shook
+    The plumes upon a hearse:
+  And bitter wine upon a sponge
+    Was the savour of Remorse.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,
+    But never came the day:
+  And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,
+    In the corners where we lay:
+  And each evil sprite that walks by night
+    Before us seemed to play.
+
+  They glided past, they glided fast,
+    Like travellers through a mist:
+  They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
+    Of delicate turn and twist,
+  And with formal pace and loathsome grace
+    The phantoms kept their tryst.
+
+  With mop and mow, we saw them go,
+    Slim shadows hand in hand:
+  About, about, in ghostly rout
+    They trod a saraband:
+  And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
+    Like the wind upon the sand!
+
+  With the pirouettes of marionettes,
+    They tripped on pointed tread:
+  But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
+    As their grisly masque they led,
+  And loud they sang, and long they sang,
+    For they sang to wake the dead.
+
+  _"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide,
+    But fettered limbs go lame!
+  And once, or twice, to throw the dice
+    Is a gentlemanly game,
+  But he does not win who plays with Sin
+    In the secret House of Shame."_
+
+  No things of air these antics were,
+    That frolicked with such glee:
+  To men whose lives were held in gyves,
+    And whose feet might not go free,
+  Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
+    Most terrible to see.
+
+  Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
+    Some wheeled in smirking pairs;
+  With the mincing step of a demirep
+    Some sidled up the stairs:
+  And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
+    Each helped us at our prayers.
+
+  The morning wind began to moan,
+    But still the night went on:
+  Through its giant loom the web of gloom
+    Crept till each thread was spun:
+  And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
+    Of the Justice of the Sun.
+
+  The moaning wind went wandering round
+    The weeping prison-wall:
+  Till like a wheel of turning steel
+    We felt the minutes crawl:
+  O moaning wind! what had we done
+    To have such a seneschal?
+
+  At last I saw the shadowed bars,
+    Like a lattice wrought in lead,
+  Move right across the whitewashed wall
+    That faced my three-plank bed,
+  And I knew that somewhere in the world
+    God's dreadful dawn was red.
+
+  At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
+    At seven all was still,
+  But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
+    The prison seemed to fill,
+  For the Lord of Death with icy breath
+    Had entered in to kill.
+
+  He did not pass in purple pomp,
+    Nor ride a moon-white steed.
+  Three yards of cord and a sliding board
+    Are all the gallows' need:
+  So with rope of shame the Herald came
+    To do the secret deed.
+
+  We were as men who through a fen
+    Of filthy darkness grope:
+  We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
+    Or to give our anguish scope:
+  Something was dead in each of us,
+    And what was dead was Hope.
+
+  For Man's grim Justice goes its way,
+    And will not swerve aside:
+  It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
+    It has a deadly stride:
+  With iron heel it slays the strong,
+    The monstrous parricide!
+
+  We waited for the stroke of eight:
+    Each tongue was thick with thirst:
+  For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
+    That makes a man accursed,
+  And Fate will use a running noose
+    For the best man and the worst.
+
+  We had no other thing to do,
+    Save to wait for the sign to come:
+  So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
+    Quiet we sat and dumb:
+  But each man's heart beat thick and quick,
+    Like a madman on a drum!
+
+  With sudden shock the prison-clock
+    Smote on the shivering air,
+  And from all the gaol rose up a wail
+    Of impotent despair,
+  Like the sound that frightened marches hear
+    From some leper in his lair.
+
+  And as one sees most fearful things
+    In the crystal of a dream,
+  We saw the greasy hempen rope
+    Hooked to the blackened beam,
+  And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
+    Strangled into a scream.
+
+  And all the woe that moved him so
+    That he gave that bitter cry,
+  And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
+    None knew so well as I:
+  For he who lives more lives than one
+    More deaths than one must die.
+
+
+IV
+
+
+  There is no chapel on the day
+    On which they hang a man:
+  The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
+    Or his face is far too wan,
+  Or there is that written in his eyes
+    Which none should look upon.
+
+  So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
+    And then they rang the bell,
+  And the warders with their jingling keys
+    Opened each listening cell,
+  And down the iron stair we tramped,
+    Each from his separate Hell.
+
+  Out into God's sweet air we went,
+    But not in wonted way,
+  For this man's face was white with fear,
+    And that man's face was grey,
+  And I never saw sad men who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw sad men who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    We prisoners called the sky,
+  And at every happy cloud that passed
+    In such strange freedom by.
+
+  But there were those amongst us all
+    Who walked with downcast head,
+  And knew that, had each got his due,
+    They should have died instead:
+  He had but killed a thing that lived,
+    Whilst they had killed the dead.
+
+  For he who sins a second time
+    Wakes a dead soul to pain,
+  And draws it from its spotted shroud,
+    And makes it bleed again,
+  And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,
+    And makes it bleed in vain!
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
+    With crooked arrows starred,
+  Silently we went round and round
+    The slippery asphalte yard;
+  Silently we went round and round,
+    And no man spoke a word.
+
+  Silently we went round and round,
+    And through each hollow mind
+  The Memory of dreadful things
+    Rushed like a dreadful wind,
+  And Horror stalked before each man,
+    And Terror crept behind.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The warders strutted up and down,
+    And watched their herd of brutes,
+  Their uniforms were spick and span,
+    And they wore their Sunday suits,
+  But we knew the work they had been at,
+    By the quicklime on their boots.
+
+  For where a grave had opened wide,
+    There was no grave at all:
+  Only a stretch of mud and sand
+    By the hideous prison-wall,
+  And a little heap of burning lime,
+    That the man should have his pall.
+
+  For he has a pall, this wretched man,
+    Such as few men can claim:
+  Deep down below a prison-yard,
+    Naked for greater shame,
+  He lies, with fetters on each foot,
+    Wrapt in a sheet of flame!
+
+  And all the while the burning lime
+    Eats flesh and bone away,
+  It eats the brittle bone by night,
+    And the soft flesh by day,
+  It eats the flesh and bone by turns,
+    But it eats the heart alway.
+
+       *       *       *       *
+
+  For three long years they will not sow
+    Or root or seedling there:
+  For three long years the unblessed spot
+    Will sterile be and bare,
+  And look upon the wondering sky
+    With unreproachful stare.
+
+  They think a murderer's heart would taint
+    Each simple seed they sow.
+  It is not true! God's kindly earth
+    Is kindlier than men know,
+  And the red rose would but blow more red,
+    The white rose whiter blow.
+
+  Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
+    Out of his heart a white!
+  For who can say by what strange way,
+    Christ brings His will to light,
+  Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
+    Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?
+
+  But neither milk-white rose nor red
+    May bloom in prison-air;
+  The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
+    Are what they give us there:
+  For flowers have been known to heal
+    A common man's despair.
+
+  So never will wine-red rose or white,
+    Petal by petal, fall
+  On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
+    By the hideous prison-wall,
+  To tell the men who tramp the yard
+    That God's Son died for all.
+
+  Yet though the hideous prison-wall
+    Still hems him round and round,
+  And a spirit may not walk by night
+    That is with fetters bound,
+  And a spirit may but weep that lies
+    In such unholy ground.
+
+  He is at peace-this wretched man--
+    At peace, or will be soon:
+  There is no thing to make him mad,
+    Nor does Terror walk at noon,
+  For the lampless Earth in which he lies
+    Has neither Sun nor Moon.
+
+  They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
+    They did not even toll
+  A requiem that might have brought
+    Rest to his startled soul,
+  But hurriedly they took him out,
+    And hid him in a hole.
+
+  The warders stripped him of his clothes,
+    And gave him to the flies:
+  They mocked the swollen purple throat,
+    And the stark and staring eyes:
+  And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
+    In which the convict lies.
+
+  The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
+    By his dishonoured grave:
+  Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
+    That Christ for sinners gave,
+  Because the man was one of those
+    Whom Christ came down to save.
+
+  Yet all is well; he has but passed
+    To Life's appointed bourne:
+  And alien tears will fill for him
+    Pity's long-broken urn,
+  For his mourners will be outcast men,
+    And outcasts always mourn.
+
+
+V
+
+
+  I know not whether Laws be right,
+    Or whether Laws be wrong;
+  All that we know who lie in gaol
+    Is that the wall is strong;
+  And that each day is like a year,
+    A year whose days are long.
+
+  But this I know, that every Law
+    That men have made for Man,
+  Since first Man took his brother's life,
+    And the sad world began,
+  But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
+    With a most evil fan.
+
+  This too I know--and wise it were
+    If each could know the same--
+  That every prison that men build
+    Is built with bricks of shame,
+  And bound with bars lest Christ should see
+    How men their brothers maim.
+
+  With bars they blur the gracious moon,
+    And blind the goodly sun:
+  And they do well to hide their Hell,
+    For in it things are done
+  That Son of God nor son of Man
+    Ever should look upon!
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The vilest deeds like poison weeds,
+    Bloom well in prison-air;
+  It is only what is good in Man
+    That wastes and withers there:
+  Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
+    And the Warder is Despair.
+
+  For they starve the little frightened child
+    Till it weeps both night and day:
+  And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
+    And gibe the old and grey,
+  And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
+    And none a word may say.
+
+  Each narrow cell in which we dwell
+    Is a foul and dark latrine,
+  And the fetid breath of living Death
+    Chokes up each grated screen,
+  And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
+    In humanity's machine.
+
+  The brackish water that we drink
+   Creeps with a loathsome slime,
+  And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
+   Is full of chalk and lime,
+  And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
+   Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
+   Like asp with adder fight,
+  We have little care of prison fare,
+   For what chills and kills outright
+  Is that every stone one lifts by day
+   Becomes one's heart by night.
+
+  With midnight always in one's heart,
+   And twilight in one's cell,
+  We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
+   Each in his separate Hell,
+  And the silence is more awful far
+   Than the sound of a brazen bell.
+
+  And never a human voice comes near
+   To speak a gentle word:
+  And the eye that watches through the door
+   Is pitiless and hard:
+  And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
+   With soul and body marred.
+
+  And thus we rust Life's iron chain
+   Degraded and alone:
+  And some men curse and some men weep,
+    And some men make no moan:
+  But God's eternal Laws are kind
+    And break the heart of stone.
+
+  And every human heart that breaks,
+    In prison-cell or yard,
+  Is as that broken box that gave
+    Its treasure to the Lord,
+  And filled the unclean leper's house
+    With the scent of costliest nard.
+
+  Ah! happy they whose hearts can break
+    And peace of pardon win!
+  How else man may make straight his plan
+    And cleanse his soul from Sin?
+  How else but through a broken heart
+    May Lord Christ enter in?
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  And he of the swollen purple throat,
+    And the stark and staring eyes,
+  Waits for the holy hands that took
+    The Thief to Paradise;
+  And a broken and a contrite heart
+    The Lord will not despise.
+
+  The man in red who reads the Law
+    Gave him three weeks of life,
+  Three little weeks in which to heal    His soul of his soul's strife,
+  And cleanse from every blot of blood
+    The hand that held the knife.
+
+  And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
+    The hand that held the steel:
+  For only blood can wipe out blood,
+    And only tears can heal:
+  And the crimson stain that was of Cain
+    Became Christ's snow-white seal.
+
+
+VI
+
+
+  In Reading gaol by Reading town
+    There is a pit of shame,
+  And in it lies a wretched man
+    Eaten by teeth of flame,
+  In a burning winding-sheet he lies,
+    And his grave has got no name.
+
+  And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
+    In silence let him lie:
+  No need to waste the foolish tear,
+    Or heave the windy sigh:
+  The man had killed the thing he loved,
+    And so he had to die.
+
+  And all men kill the thing they love,
+    By all let this be heard,
+  Some do it with a bitter look,
+    Some with a flattering word,
+  The coward does it with a kiss,
+    The brave man with a sword!
+
+
+
+
+APPENDIX
+
+_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume I._
+
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+
+Printed from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection.
+
+
+KING ESTMERE
+
+This ballad is given from two versions, one in the Percy folio
+manuscript, and of considerable antiquity. The original version was
+probably written at the end of the fifteenth century.
+
+
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+
+One of the earliest known ballads about Robin Hood--from the Percy folio
+manuscript.
+
+
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+
+This ballad is printed from Richard Johnson's _Crown Garland of
+Goulden Roses,_ 1612.
+
+
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+
+This ballad is composed of innumerable small fragments of ancient
+ballads found throughout the plays of Shakespeare, which Thomas Percy
+formed into one.
+
+
+SIR ALDINGAR
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with some additional stanzas
+added by Thomas Percy to complete the story.
+
+
+EDOM O'GORDON
+
+A Scottish ballad--this version was printed at Glasgow in 1755 by Robert
+and Andrew Foulis. It has been enlarged with several stanzas, recovered
+from a fragment of the same ballad, from the Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF CHEVY CHACE
+
+From the Percy folio manuscript, amended by two or three others printed
+in black-letter. Written about the time of Elizabeth.
+
+
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+
+Given from a printed copy, corrected in part by an extract from the
+Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+THE CHILD OF ELLE
+
+Partly from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas
+by Percy as the original copy was defective and mutilated.
+
+
+KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAM WORTH
+
+The text in this ballad is selected from two copies in black-letter. One
+in the Bodleian Library, printed at London by John Danter in 1596. The
+other copy, without date, is from the Pepys Collection.
+
+
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+
+Printed from two manuscript copies transmitted from Scotland. It is
+possible that this ballad is founded on historical fact.
+
+
+EDWARD, EDWARD
+
+An old Scottish ballad--from a manuscript copy transmitted from
+Scotland.
+
+
+KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+
+Version from an old copy in the _Golden Garland,_ black-letter,
+entitled _A lamentable Song of the Death of King Lear and his Three
+Daughters._
+
+
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+
+This ballad is said to have been written by King James V of Scotland.
+
+
+
+_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume II._
+
+
+THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+
+Printed from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections.
+
+
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+
+This ballad was abridged and modernized in the time of James I from one
+much older, entitled _King John and the Bishop of Canterbury._ The
+version given here is from an ancient black-letter copy.
+
+
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+
+Given, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy, entitled
+_Barbara Alien's Cruelty, or the Young Man's Tragedy._
+
+
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+
+The version of this ballad given here is from four ancient copies in
+black-letter: two of them in the Pepys' Library. It is by Thomas Delone.
+First printed in 1612.
+
+
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+
+This is a revised and modernized version of a very old ballad.
+
+
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas
+supplied by Thomas Percy.
+
+
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+
+This ballad is from the Percy folio manuscript with additions and
+amendments from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection.
+It was written probably at the end of the sixteenth century.
+
+
+THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with a few additions and
+alterations from two ancient printed copies.
+
+
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+
+Given from an old black-letter copy.
+
+
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+
+The version of an ancient black-letter copy, edited in part from the
+Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+GIL MORRICE
+
+The version of this ballad given here was printed at Glasgow in 1755.
+Since this date sixteen additional verses have been discovered and added
+to the original ballad.
+
+
+CHILD WATERS
+
+From the Percy folio manuscript, with corrections.
+
+
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+
+From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection.
+
+
+THE LYE
+
+By Sir Walter Raleigh. This poem is from a scarce miscellany entitled
+_Davison's Poems, or a poeticall Rapsodie divided into sixe books ...
+the 4th impression newly corrected and augmented and put into a forme
+more pleasing to the reader._ Lond. 1621.
+
+
+
+_From "English and Scottish Ballads."_
+
+
+MAY COLLIN
+
+From a manuscript at Abbotsford in the Sir Walter Scott Collection,
+_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy._
+
+
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+
+_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy,_ No. 97,
+Abbotsford. From the Sir Walter Scott Collection. Communicated to Sir
+Walter by Mrs. Christiana Greenwood, London, May 27th, 1806.
+
+
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+
+Taken from the Jamieson-Brown manuscript, 1783.
+
+
+CLERK COLVILL
+
+From a transcript of No. 13 of William Tytler's Brown manuscript.
+
+
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+
+From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland,_ 1828.
+
+
+HYND HORN
+
+From Motherwell's manuscript, 1825 and after.
+
+
+THE THREE RAVENS
+
+_Melismate. Musicall Phansies. Fitting the Court, Cittie and Country
+Humours._ London, 1611. (T. Ravenscroft.)
+
+
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+Printed from _Ministrelsy of the Scottish Border_, 1802.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+MANDALAY
+
+By Rudyard Kipling.
+
+
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+
+
+IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY
+
+By Jack Judge and Harry Williams.
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+By Oscar Wilde.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Book of Old Ballads, by Various
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Book of Old Ballads, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Book of Old Ballads
+
+Author: Various
+
+Editor: Beverly Nichols
+
+Posting Date: April 29, 2014 [EBook #7535]
+Release Date: February, 2005
+First Posted: May 15, 2003
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury, Charles Franks
+and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+A BOOK OF OLD BALLADS
+
+
+Selected and with an Introduction
+
+by
+
+BEVERLEY NICHOLS
+
+
+
+
+ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
+
+The thanks and acknowledgments of the publishers are due to the
+following: to Messrs. B. Feldman & Co., 125 Shaftesbury Avenue, W.C. 2,
+for "It's a Long Way to Tipperary"; to Mr. Rudyard Kipling and Messrs.
+Methuen & Co. for "Mandalay" from _Barrack Room Ballads_; and to
+the Executors of the late Oscar Wilde for "The Ballad of Reading Gaol."
+
+"The Earl of Mar's Daughter", "The Wife of Usher's Well", "The Three
+Ravens", "Thomas the Rhymer", "Clerk Colvill", "Young Beichen", "May
+Collin", and "Hynd Horn" have been reprinted from _English and
+Scottish Ballads_, edited by Mr. G. L. Kittredge and the late Mr. F.
+J. Child, and published by the Houghton Mifflin Company.
+
+The remainder of the ballads in this book, with the exception of "John
+Brown's Body", are from _Percy's Reliques_, Volumes I and II.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+FOREWORD
+MANDALAY
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+KING ESTMERE
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+MAY COLLIN
+THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+CLERK COLVILL
+SIR ALDINGAR
+EDOM O' GORDON
+CHEVY CHACE
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+GIL MORRICE
+THE CHILD OF ELLE
+CHILD WATERS
+KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+EDWARD, EDWARD
+KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+HYND HORN
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+TIPPERARY
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+THE THREE RAVENS
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+THE LYE
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+
+_The source of these ballads will be found in the Appendix at the end
+of this book._
+
+
+
+
+LIST OF COLOUR PLATES
+
+
+HYND HORN
+KING ESTMERE
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+MAY COLLIN
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+CLERK COLVILL
+GIL MORRICE
+CHILD WATERS
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+THE THREE RAVENS
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+
+
+
+
+FOREWORD
+
+By
+
+Beverley Nichols
+
+
+These poems are the very essence of the British spirit. They are, to
+literature, what the bloom of the heather is to the Scot, and the
+smell of the sea to the Englishman. All that is beautiful in the old
+word "patriotism" ... a word which, of late, has been twisted to such
+ignoble purposes ... is latent in these gay and full-blooded measures.
+
+But it is not only for these reasons that they are so valuable to the
+modern spirit. It is rather for their tonic qualities that they should
+be prescribed in 1934. The post-war vintage of poetry is the thinnest
+and the most watery that England has ever produced. But here, in these
+ballads, are great draughts of poetry which have lost none of their
+sparkle and none of their bouquet.
+
+It is worth while asking ourselves why this should be--why these poems
+should "keep", apparently for ever, when the average modern poem turns
+sour overnight. And though all generalizations are dangerous I believe
+there is one which explains our problem, a very simple one.... namely,
+that the eyes of the old ballad-singers were turned outwards, while the
+eyes of the modern lyric-writer are turned inwards.
+
+The authors of the old ballads wrote when the world was young, and
+infinitely exciting, when nobody knew what mystery might not lie on the
+other side of the hill, when the moon was a golden lamp, lit by a
+personal God, when giants and monsters stalked, without the slightest
+doubt, in the valleys over the river. In such a world, what could a man
+do but stare about him, with bright eyes, searching the horizon, while
+his heart beat fast in the rhythm of a song?
+
+But now--the mysteries have gone. We know, all too well, what lies on
+the other side of the hill. The scientists have long ago puffed out,
+scornfully, the golden lamp of the night ... leaving us in the uttermost
+darkness. The giants and the monsters have either skulked away or have
+been tamed, and are engaged in writing their memoirs for the popular
+press. And so, in a world where everything is known (and nothing
+understood), the modern lyric-writer wearily averts his eyes, and stares
+into his own heart.
+
+That way madness lies. All madmen are ferocious egotists, and so are all
+modern lyric-writers. That is the first and most vital difference
+between these ballads and their modern counterparts. The old
+ballad-singers hardly ever used the first person singular. The modern
+lyric-writer hardly ever uses anything else.
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+
+
+
+This is really such an important point that it is worth labouring.
+
+Why is ballad-making a lost art? That it _is_ a lost art there can
+be no question. Nobody who is painfully acquainted with the rambling,
+egotistical pieces of dreary versification, passing for modern
+"ballads", will deny it.
+
+Ballad-making is a lost art for a very simple reason. Which is, that we
+are all, nowadays, too sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought to
+receive emotions directly, without self-consciousness. If we are
+wounded, we are no longer able to sing a song about a clean sword, and a
+great cause, and a black enemy, and a waving flag. No--we must needs go
+into long descriptions of our pain, and abstruse calculations about its
+effect upon our souls.
+
+It is not "we" who have changed. It is life that has changed. "We" are
+still men, with the same legs, arms and eyes as our ancestors. But life
+has so twisted things that there are no longer any clean swords nor
+great causes, nor black enemies. And the flags do not know which way to
+flutter, so contrary are the winds of the modern world. All is doubt.
+And doubt's colour is grey.
+
+Grey is no colour for a ballad. Ballads are woven from stuff of
+primitive hue ... the red blood gushing, the gold sun shining, the green
+grass growing, the white snow falling. Never will you find grey in a
+ballad. You will find the black of the night and the raven's wing,
+and the silver of a thousand stars. You will find the blue of many
+summer skies. But you will not find grey.
+
+
+III
+
+
+That is why ballad-making is a lost art. Or almost a lost art. For even
+in this odd and musty world of phantoms which we call the twentieth
+century, there are times when a man finds himself in a certain place at
+a certain hour and something happens to him which takes him out of
+himself. And a song is born, simply and sweetly, a song which other
+men can sing, for all time, and forget themselves.
+
+Such a song was once written by a master at my old school, Marlborough.
+He was a Scot. But he loved Marlborough with the sort of love which the
+old ballad-mongers must have had-the sort of love which takes a man on
+wings, far from his foolish little body.
+
+He wrote a song called "The Scotch Marlburian".
+
+Here it is:--
+
+  Oh Marlborough, she's a toun o' touns
+  We will say that and mair,
+  We that ha' walked alang her douns
+  And snuffed her Wiltshire air.
+  A weary way ye'll hae to tramp
+  Afore ye match the green
+  O' Savernake and Barbery Camp
+  And a' that lies atween!
+
+The infinite beauty of that phrase ... "and a' that lies atween"! The
+infinite beauty as it is roared by seven hundred young throats in
+unison! For in that phrase there drifts a whole pageant of boyhood--the
+sound of cheers as a race is run on a stormy day in March, the tolling
+of the Chapel bell, the crack of ball against bat, the sighs of sleep
+in a long white dormitory.
+
+But you may say "What is all this to me? I wasn't at Maryborough. I
+don't like schoolboys ... they strike me as dirty, noisy, and usually
+foul-minded. Why should I go into raptures about such a song, which
+seems only to express a highly debatable approval of a certain method of
+education?"
+
+If you are asking yourself that sort of question, you are obviously in
+very grave need of the tonic properties of this book. For after you have
+read it, you will wonder why you ever asked it.
+
+
+IV
+
+I go back and back to the same point, at the risk of boring you to
+distraction. For it is a point which has much more "to" it than the
+average modern will care to admit, unless he is forced to do so.
+
+You remember the generalization about the eyes ... how they used to look
+_out_, but now look _in_? Well, listen to this....
+
+  _I'm_ feeling blue,
+  _I_ don't know what to do,
+  'Cos _I_ love you
+  And you don't love _me_.
+
+The above masterpiece is, as far as I am aware, imaginary. But it
+represents a sort of _reductio ad absurdum_ of thousands of lyrics
+which have been echoing over the post-war world. Nearly all these lyrics
+are melancholy, with the profound and primitive melancholy of the negro
+swamp, and they are all violently egotistical.
+
+Now this, in the long run, is an influence of far greater evil than one
+would be inclined at first to admit. If countless young men, every
+night, are to clasp countless young women to their bosoms, and rotate
+over countless dancing-floors, muttering "I'm feeling blue ... _I_
+don't know what to do", it is not unreasonable to suppose that they will
+subconsciously apply some of the lyric's mournful egotism to themselves.
+
+Anybody who has even a nodding acquaintance with modern psychological
+science will be aware of the significance of "conditioning", as applied
+to the human temperament. The late M. Coue "conditioned" people into
+happiness by making them repeat, over and over again, the phrase "Every
+day in every way I grow better and better and better."
+
+The modern lyric-monger exactly reverses M. Coue's doctrine. He makes
+the patient repeat "Every night, with all my might, I grow worse and
+worse and worse." Of course the "I" of the lyric-writer is an imaginary
+"I", but if any man sings "_I'm_ feeling blue", often enough, to a
+catchy tune, he will be a superman if he does not eventually apply that
+"I" to himself.
+
+But the "blueness" is really beside the point. It is the _egotism_
+of the modern ballad which is the trouble. Even when, as they
+occasionally do, the modern lyric-writers discover, to their
+astonishment, that they are feeling happy, they make the happiness such
+a personal issue that half its tonic value is destroyed. It is not, like
+the old ballads, just an outburst of delight, a sudden rapture at the
+warmth of the sun, or the song of the birds, or the glint of moonlight
+on a sword, or the dew in a woman's eyes. It is not an emotion so sweet
+and soaring that self is left behind, like a dull chrysalis, while the
+butterfly of the spirit flutters free. No ... the chrysalis is never
+left behind, the "I", "I", "I", continues, in a maddening monotone. And
+we get this sort of thing....
+
+  _I_ want to be happy,
+  But _I_ can't be happy
+  Till _I've_ made you happy too.
+
+And that, if you please, is one of the jolliest lyrics of the last
+decade! That was a song which made us all smile and set all our feet
+dancing!
+
+Even when their tale was woven out of the stuff of tragedy, the old
+ballads were not tarnished with such morbid speculations. Read the tale
+of the beggar's daughter of Bethnal Green. One shudders to think what a
+modern lyric-writer would make of it. We should all be in tears before
+the end of the first chorus.
+
+But here, a lovely girl leaves her blind father to search for fortune.
+She has many adventures, and in the end, she marries a knight. The
+ballad ends with words of almost childish simplicity, but they are words
+which ring with the true tone of happiness:--
+
+  Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte
+  A bridegroome most happy then was the young knighte
+  In joy and felicitie long lived hee
+  All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.
+
+I said that the words were of almost childish simplicity. But the
+student of language, and the would-be writer, might do worse than study
+those words, if only to see how the cumulative effect of brightness and
+radiance is gained. You may think the words are artless, but just
+ponder, for a moment, the number of brilliant verbal symbols which are
+collected into that tiny verse. There are only four lines. But those
+lines contain these words ...
+
+Feast, joy, delight, bridegroom, happy, joy, young, felicity, fair,
+pretty.
+
+Is that quite so artless, after all? Is it not rather like an old and
+primitive plaque, where colour is piled on colour till you would say
+the very wood will burst into flame ... and yet, the total effect is one
+of happy simplicity?
+
+
+V
+
+
+How were the early ballads born? Who made them? One man or many? Were
+they written down, when they were still young, or was it only after the
+lapse of many generations, when their rhymes had been sharpened and
+their metres polished by constant repetition, that they were finally
+copied out?
+
+To answer these questions would be one of the most fascinating tasks
+which the detective in letters could set himself. Grimm, listening
+in his fairyland, heard some of the earliest ballads, loved them,
+pondered on them, and suddenly startled the world by announcing that
+most ballads were not the work of a single author, but of the people at
+large. _Das Volk dichtet_, he said. And that phrase got him into a
+lot of trouble. People told him to get back to his fairyland and not
+make such ridiculous suggestions. For how, they asked, could a whole
+people make a poem? You might as well tell a thousand men to make a
+tune, limiting each of them to one note!
+
+To invest Grimm's words with such an intention is quite unfair.
+[Footnote:  For a discussion of Grimm's theories, together with much
+interesting speculation on the origin of the ballads, the reader should
+study the admirable introduction to _English and Scottish Popular
+Ballads_, published by George Harrap & Co., Ltd.] Obviously a
+multitude of people could not, deliberately, make a single poem any more
+than a multitude of people could, deliberately, make a single picture,
+one man doing the nose, one man an eye and so on. Such a suggestion is
+grotesque, and Grimm never meant it. If I might guess at what he meant,
+I would suggest that he was thinking that the origin of ballads must
+have been similar to the origin of the dance, (which was probably the
+earliest form of aesthetic expression known to man).
+
+The dance was invented because it provided a means of prolonging ecstasy
+by art. It may have been an ecstasy of sex or an ecstasy of victory ...
+that doesn't matter. The point is that it gave to a group of people an
+ordered means of expressing their delight instead of just leaping about
+and making loud cries, like the animals. And you may be sure that as the
+primitive dance began, there was always some member of the tribe a
+little more agile than the rest--some man who kicked a little higher or
+wriggled his body in an amusing way. And the rest of them copied him,
+and incorporated his step into their own.
+
+Apply this analogy to the origin of ballads. It fits perfectly.
+
+There has been a successful raid, or a wedding, or some great deed of
+daring, or some other phenomenal thing, natural or supernatural. And now
+that this day, which will ever linger in their memories, is drawing to
+its close, the members of the tribe draw round the fire and begin to
+make merry. The wine passes ... and tongues are loosened. And someone
+says a phrase which has rhythm and a sparkle to it, and the phrase is
+caught up and goes round the fire, and is repeated from mouth to mouth.
+And then the local wit caps it with another phrase and a rhyme is born.
+For there is always a local wit in every community, however primitive.
+There is even a local wit in the monkey house at the zoo.
+
+And once you have that single rhyme and that little piece of rhythm, you
+have the genesis of the whole thing. It may not be worked out that
+night, nor even by the men who first made it. The fire may long have
+died before the ballad is completed, and tall trees may stand over the
+men and women who were the first to tell the tale. But rhyme and rhythm
+are indestructible, if they are based on reality. "Not marble nor the
+gilded monuments of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme."
+
+And so it is that some of the loveliest poems in the language will ever
+remain anonymous. Needless to say, _all_ the poems are not
+anonymous. As society became more civilized it was inevitable that the
+peculiar circumstances from which the earlier ballads sprang should
+become less frequent. Nevertheless, about nearly all of the ballads
+there is "a common touch", as though even the most self-conscious author
+had drunk deep of the well of tradition, that sparkling well in which so
+much beauty is distilled.
+
+
+VI
+
+
+But though the author or authors of most of the ballads may be lost in
+the lists of time, we know a good deal about the minstrels who sang
+them. And it is a happy thought that those minstrels were such
+considerable persons, so honourably treated, so generously esteemed.
+The modern mind, accustomed to think of the singer of popular songs
+either as a highly paid music-hall artist, at the top of the ladder, or
+a shivering street-singer, at the bottom of it, may find it difficult to
+conceive of a minstrel as a sort of ambassador of song, moving from
+court to court with dignity and ceremony.
+
+Yet this was actually the case. In the ballad of King Estmere, for
+example, we see the minstrel finely mounted, and accompanied by a
+harpist, who sings his songs for him. This minstrel, too, moves among
+kings without any ceremony. As Percy has pointed out, "The further we
+carry our enquiries back, the greater respect we find paid to the
+professors of poetry and music among all the Celtic and Gothic nations.
+Their character was deemed so sacred that under its sanction our famous
+King Alfred made no scruple to enter the Danish camp, and was at once
+admitted to the king's headquarters."
+
+_And even so late as the time of Froissart, we have minstrels and
+heralds mentioned together, as those who might securely go into an
+enemy's country._
+
+The reader will perhaps forgive me if I harp back, once more, to our
+present day and age, in view of the quite astonishing change in national
+psychology which that revelation implies. Minstrels and heralds were
+once allowed safe conduct into the enemy's country, in time of war. Yet,
+in the last war, it was considered right and proper to hiss the work of
+Beethoven off the stage, and responsible newspapers seriously suggested
+that never again should a note of German music, of however great
+antiquity, be heard in England! We are supposed to have progressed
+towards internationalism, nowadays. Whereas, in reality, we have grown
+more and more frenziedly national. We are very far behind the age of
+Froissart, when there was a true internationalism--the internationalism
+of art.
+
+To some of us that is still a very real internationalism. When we hear a
+Beethoven sonata we do not think of it as issuing from the brain of a
+"Teuton" but as blowing from the eternal heights of music whose winds
+list nothing of frontiers.
+
+Man _needs_ song, for he is a singing animal. Moreover, he needs
+communal song, for he is a social animal. The military authorities
+realized this very cleverly, and they encouraged the troops, during the
+war, to sing on every possible occasion. Crazy pacifists, like myself,
+may find it almost unbearably bitter to think that on each side of
+various frontiers young men were being trained to sing themselves to
+death, in a struggle which was hideously impersonal, a struggle of
+machinery, in which the only winners were the armament manufacturers.
+And crazy pacifists might draw a very sharp line indeed between the
+songs which celebrated real personal struggles in the tiny wars of the
+past, and the songs which were merely the prelude to thousands of
+puzzled young men suddenly finding themselves choking in chlorine gas,
+in the wars of the present.
+
+But even the craziest pacifist could not fail to be moved by some of the
+ballads of the last war. To me, "Tipperary" is still the most moving
+tune in the world. It happens to be a very good tune, from the
+musician's point of view, a tune that Handel would not have been ashamed
+to write, but that is not the point. Its emotional qualities are due to
+its associations. Perhaps that is how it has always been, with ballads.
+From the standard of pure aesthetics, one ought not to consider
+"associations" in judging a poem or a tune, but with a song like
+"Tipperary" you would be an inhuman prig if you didn't. We all have our
+"associations" with this particular tune. For me, it recalls a window in
+Hampstead, on a grey day in October 1914. I had been having the measles,
+and had not been allowed to go back to school. Then suddenly, down the
+street, that tune echoed. And they came marching, and marching, and
+marching. And they were all so happy.
+
+So happy.
+
+
+VII
+
+
+"Tipperary" is a true ballad, which is why it is included in this book.
+So is "John Brown's Body". They were not written as ballads but they
+have been promoted to that proud position by popular vote.
+
+It will now be clear, from the foregoing remarks, that there are
+thousands of poems, labelled "ballads" from the eighteenth century,
+through the romantic movement, and onwards, which are not ballads at
+all. Swinburne's ballads, which so shocked our grandparents, bore about
+as much relation to the true ballads as a vase of wax fruit to a
+hawker's barrow. They were lovely patterns of words, woven like some
+exquisite, foaming lace, but they were Swinburne, Swinburne all the
+time. They had nothing to do with the common people. The common people
+would not have understood a word of them.
+
+Ballads _must_ be popular. And that is why it will always remain
+one of the weirdest paradoxes of literature that the only man, except
+Kipling, who has written a true ballad in the last fifty years is the
+man who despised the people, who shrank from them, and jeered at them,
+from his little gilded niche in Piccadilly. I refer, of course, to Oscar
+Wilde's "Ballad of Reading Gaol." It was a true ballad, and it was the
+best thing he ever wrote. For it was written _de profundis_, when
+his hands were bloody with labour and his tortured spirit had been down
+to the level of the lowest, to the level of the pavement ... nay, lower
+... to the gutter itself. And in the gutter, with agony, he learned the
+meaning of song.
+
+Ballads begin and end with the people. You cannot escape that fact. And
+therefore, if I wished to collect the ballads of the future, the songs
+which will endure into the next century (if there _is_ any song in
+the next century), I should not rake through the contemporary poets, in
+the hope of finding gems of lasting brilliance. No. I should go to the
+music-halls. I should listen to the sort of thing they sing when the
+faded lady with the high bust steps forward and shouts, "Now then, boys,
+all together!"
+
+Unless you can write the words "Now then, boys, all together", at the
+top of a ballad, it is not really a ballad at all. That may sound a
+sweeping statement, but it is true.
+
+In the present-day music-halls, although they have fallen from their
+high estate, we should find a number of these songs which seem destined
+for immortality. One of these is "Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore."
+
+Do you remember it?
+
+  Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!
+  Mrs. Moore, oh don't 'ave any more!
+  Too many double gins
+  Give the ladies double chins,
+  So don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!
+
+The whole of English "low life" (which is much the most exciting part of
+English life) is in that lyric. It is as vivid as a Rowlandson cartoon.
+How well we know Mrs. Moore! How plainly we see her ... the amiable,
+coarse-mouthed, generous-hearted tippler, with her elbow on countless
+counters, her damp coppers clutched in her rough hands, her eyes
+staring, a little vacantly, about her. Some may think it is a sordid
+picture, but I am sure that they cannot know Mrs. Moore very well if
+they think that. They cannot know her bitter struggles, her silent
+heroisms, nor her sardonic humour.
+
+Lyrics such as these will, I believe, endure long after many of the most
+renowned and fashionable poets of to-day are forgotten. They all have
+the same quality, that they can be prefaced by that inspiring sentence,
+"Now then, boys--all together!" Or to put it another way, as in the
+ballad of George Barnwell,
+
+  All youths of fair England
+  That dwell both far and near,
+  Regard my story that I tell
+  And to my song give ear.
+
+That may sound more dignified, but it amounts to the same thing!
+
+
+VIII
+
+
+But if the generation to come will learn a great deal from the few
+popular ballads which we are still creating in our music-halls, how much
+more shall we learn of history from these ballads, which rang through
+the whole country, and were impregnated with the spirit of a whole
+people! These ballads _are_ history, and as such they should be
+recognised.
+
+It has always seemed to me that we teach history in the wrong way. We
+give boys the impression that it is an affair only of kings and queens
+and great statesmen, of generals and admirals, and such-like bores.
+Thousands of boys could probably draw you a map of many pettifogging
+little campaigns, with startling accuracy, but not one in a thousand
+could tell you what the private soldier carried in his knapsack. You
+could get sheaves of competent essays, from any school, dealing with
+such things as the Elizabethan ecclesiastical settlement, but how many
+boys could tell you, even vaguely, what an English home was like, what
+they ate, what coins were used, how their rooms were lit, and what they
+paid their servants?
+
+In other words, how many history masters ever take the trouble to sketch
+in the great background, the life of the common people? How many even
+realize their _existence_, except on occasions of national
+disaster, such as the Black Plague?
+
+A proper study of the ballads would go a long way towards remedying this
+defect. Thomas Percy, whose _Reliques_ must ever be the main source
+of our information on all questions connected with ballads, has pointed
+out that all the great events of the country have, sooner or later,
+found their way into the country's song-book. But it is not only the
+resounding names that are celebrated. In the ballads we hear the echoes
+of the street, the rude laughter and the pointed jests. Sometimes these
+ring so plainly that they need no explanation. At other times, we have
+to go to Percy or to some of his successors to realize the true
+significance of the song.
+
+For example, the famous ballad "John Anderson my Jo" seems, at first
+sight, to be innocent of any polemical intention. But it was written
+during the Reformation when, as Percy dryly observes, "the Muses were
+deeply engaged in religious controversy." The zeal of the Scottish
+reformers was at its height, and this zeal found vent in many a pasquil
+discharged at Popery. It caused them, indeed, in their frenzy, to
+compose songs which were grossly licentious, and to sing these songs in
+rasping voices to the tunes of some of the most popular hymns in the
+Latin Service.
+
+"John Anderson my Jo" was such a ballad composed for such an occasion.
+And Percy, who was more qualified than any other man to read between the
+lines, has pointed out that the first stanza contains a satirical
+allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy, while the second, which
+makes an apparently light reference to "seven bairns", is actually
+concerned with the seven sacraments, five of which were the spurious
+offspring of Mother Church.
+
+Thus it was in a thousand cases. The ballads, even the lightest and most
+blossoming of them, were deep-rooted in the soil of English history. How
+different from anything that we possess to-day! Great causes do not lead
+men to song, nowadays they lead them to write letters to the newspapers.
+A national thanksgiving cannot call forth a single rhyme or a single bar
+of music. Who can remember a solitary verse of thanksgiving, from any of
+our poets, in commemoration of any of the victories of the Great War?
+Who can recall even a fragment of verse in praise of the long-deferred
+coming of Peace?
+
+Very deeply significant is it that our only method of commemorating
+Armistice Day was by a two minutes silence. No song. No music. Nothing.
+The best thing we could do, we felt, was to keep quiet.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+MANDALAY
+
+
+  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
+  There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
+  For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
+  'Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!'
+  Come you back to Mandalay,
+  Where the old Flotilla lay:
+  Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
+  On the road to Mandalay,
+  Where the flyin'-fishes play,
+  An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
+
+  'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
+  An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
+  An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
+  An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
+      Bloomin' idol made o' mud--
+      Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--
+      Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
+  She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing _'Kulla-lo-lo!'_
+  With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek
+  We useter watch the steamers an' the _hathis_ pilin' teak.
+      Elephints a-pilin' teak
+      In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
+      Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away,
+  An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
+  An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
+  'If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught
+            else.'
+      No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
+      But them spicy garlic smells,
+      An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
+  An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
+  Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
+  An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
+      Beefy face an' grubby 'and--
+      Law! wot do they understand?
+      I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
+      On the road to Mandalay ...
+
+  Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
+  Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
+  For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be--
+  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
+         On the road to Mandalay,
+         Where the old Flotilla lay,
+         With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
+         O the road to Mandalay,
+         Where the flyin'-fishes play,
+         An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+
+or
+
+THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE
+
+
+  Now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court,
+  One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport:
+  But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest,
+  Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest:
+  A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground,
+  As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.
+
+  The Duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben,
+  Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then.
+  O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd
+  To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd:
+  Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose,
+  And they put him to bed for to take his repose.
+
+  Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt,
+  They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt:
+  On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,
+  They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown.
+  In the morning when day, then admiring he lay,
+  For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay.
+
+  Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state,
+  Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait;
+  And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare,
+  He desired to know what apparel he'd ware:
+  The poor tinker amaz'd on the gentleman gaz'd,
+  And admired how he to this honour was rais'd.
+
+  Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit,
+  Which he straitways put on without longer dispute;
+  With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd,
+  And it seem'd for to swell him "no" little with pride;
+  For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife?
+  Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.
+
+  From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace
+  Did observe his behaviour in every case.
+  To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait,
+  Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great:
+  Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view,
+  With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew.
+
+  A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests,
+  He was plac'd at the table above all the rest,
+  In a rich chair "or bed," lin'd with fine crimson red,
+  With a rich golden canopy over his head:
+  As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet,
+  With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.
+
+  While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine,
+  Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine.
+  Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl,
+  Till at last he began for to tumble and roul
+  From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,
+  Being seven times drunker than ever before.
+
+  Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain,
+  And restore him his old leather garments again:
+  'T was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must,
+  And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first;
+  There he slept all the night, as indeed well he might;
+  But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.
+
+  For his glory "to him" so pleasant did seem,
+  That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream;
+  Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought
+  For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought;
+  But his highness he said, Thou 'rt a jolly bold blade,
+  Such a frolick before I think never was plaid.
+
+  Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak,
+  Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak;
+  Nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground,
+  Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round,
+  Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend,
+  Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend.
+
+  Then the tinker reply'd, What! must Joan my sweet bride
+  Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride?
+  Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command?
+  Then I shall be a squire I well understand:
+  Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace,
+  I was never before in so happy a case.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+THE KNIGHT & SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+
+
+  There was a shepherd's daughter
+    Came tripping on the waye;
+  And there by chance a knighte shee mett,
+    Which caused her to staye.
+
+  Good morrowe to you, beauteous maide,
+    These words pronounced hee:
+  O I shall dye this daye, he sayd,
+    If Ive not my wille of thee.
+
+  The Lord forbid, the maide replyde,
+    That you shold waxe so wode!
+  "But for all that shee could do or saye,
+    He wold not be withstood."
+
+  Sith you have had your wille of mee,
+    And put me to open shame,
+  Now, if you are a courteous knighte,
+    Tell me what is your name?
+
+  Some do call mee Jacke, sweet heart,
+    And some do call mee Jille;
+  But when I come to the kings faire courte
+    They call me Wilfulle Wille.
+
+  He sett his foot into the stirrup,
+    And awaye then he did ride;
+  She tuckt her girdle about her middle,
+    And ranne close by his side.
+
+  But when she came to the brode water,
+    She sett her brest and swamme;
+  And when she was got out againe,
+    She tooke to her heels and ranne.
+
+  He never was the courteous knighte,
+    To saye, faire maide, will ye ride?
+  "And she was ever too loving a maide
+    To saye, sir knighte abide."
+
+  When she came to the kings faire courte,
+    She knocked at the ring;
+  So readye was the king himself
+    To let this faire maide in.
+
+  Now Christ you save, my gracious liege,
+    Now Christ you save and see,
+  You have a knighte within your courte,
+    This daye hath robbed mee.
+
+  What hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart?
+    Of purple or of pall?
+  Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring
+    From off thy finger small?
+
+  He hath not robbed mee, my liege,
+    Of purple nor of pall:
+  But he hath gotten my maiden head,
+    Which grieves mee worst of all.
+
+  Now if he be a batchelor,
+    His bodye He give to thee;
+  But if he be a married man,
+    High hanged he shall bee.
+
+  He called downe his merrye men all,
+    By one, by two, by three;
+  Sir William used to bee the first,
+    But nowe the last came hee.
+
+  He brought her downe full fortye pounde,
+    Tyed up withinne a glove:
+  Faire maide, He give the same to thee;
+    Go, seeke thee another love.
+
+  O Ile have none of your gold, she sayde,
+    Nor Ile have none of your fee;
+  But your faire bodye I must have,
+    The king hath granted mee.
+
+  Sir William ranne and fetched her then
+    Five hundred pound in golde,
+  Saying, faire maide, take this to thee,
+    Thy fault will never be tolde.
+
+  Tis not the gold that shall mee tempt,
+    These words then answered shee,
+  But your own bodye I must have,
+    The king hath granted mee.
+
+  Would I had dranke the water cleare,
+    When I did drinke the wine,
+  Rather than any shepherds brat
+    Shold bee a ladye of mine!
+
+  Would I had drank the puddle foule,
+    When I did drink the ale,
+  Rather than ever a shepherds brat
+    Shold tell me such a tale!
+
+  A shepherds brat even as I was,
+    You mote have let me bee,
+  I never had come to the kings faire courte,
+    To crave any love of thee.
+
+  He sett her on a milk-white steede,
+    And himself upon a graye;
+  He hung a bugle about his necke,
+    And soe they rode awaye.
+
+  But when they came unto the place,
+    Where marriage-rites were done,
+  She proved herself a dukes daughter,
+    And he but a squires sonne.
+
+  Now marrye me, or not, sir knight,
+    Your pleasure shall be free:
+  If you make me ladye of one good towne,
+    He make you lord of three.
+
+  Ah! cursed bee the gold, he sayd,
+    If thou hadst not been trewe,
+  I shold have forsaken my sweet love,
+    And have changed her for a newe.
+
+  And now their hearts being linked fast,
+    They joyned hand in hande:
+  Thus he had both purse, and person too,
+    And all at his commande.
+
+
+
+
+
+KING ESTMERE
+
+
+  Hearken to me, gentlemen,
+    Come and you shall heare;
+  Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren
+    That ever borne y-were.
+
+  The tone of them was Adler younge,
+    The tother was kyng Estmere;
+  The were as bolde men in their deeds,
+    As any were farr and neare.
+
+  As they were drinking ale and wine
+    Within kyng Estmeres halle:
+  When will ye marry a wyfe, brother,
+    A wyfe to glad us all?
+
+  Then bespake him kyng Estmere,
+    And answered him hastilee:
+  I know not that ladye in any land
+    That's able to marrye with mee.
+
+  Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother,
+    Men call her bright and sheene;
+  If I were kyng here in your stead,
+    That ladye shold be my queene.
+
+  Saies, Reade me, reade me, deare brother,
+    Throughout merry England,
+  Where we might find a messenger
+    Betwixt us towe to sende.
+
+  Saies, You shal ryde yourselfe, brother,
+    Ile beare you companye;
+  Many throughe fals messengers are deceived,
+    And I feare lest soe shold wee.
+
+  Thus the renisht them to ryde
+    Of twoe good renisht steeds,
+  And when the came to kyng Adlands halle,
+    Of redd gold shone their weeds.
+
+  And when the came to kyng Adlands hall
+    Before the goodlye gate,
+  There they found good kyng Adland
+    Rearing himselfe theratt.
+
+  Now Christ thee save, good kyng Adland;
+   Now Christ you save and see.
+  Sayd, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
+   Right hartilye to mee.
+
+  You have a daughter, said Adler younge,
+   Men call her bright and sheene,
+  My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe,
+   Of Englande to be queene.
+
+  Yesterday was att my deere daughter
+   Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne;
+  And then she nicked him of naye,
+   And I doubt sheele do you the same.
+
+  The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim,
+   And 'leeveth on Mahound;
+  And pitye it were that fayre ladye
+   Shold marrye a heathen hound.
+
+  But grant to me, sayes kyng Estmere,
+   For my love I you praye;
+  That I may see your daughter deere
+   Before I goe hence awaye.
+
+  Although itt is seven yeers and more
+   Since my daughter was in halle,
+  She shall come once downe for your sake
+   To glad my guestes alle.
+
+  Downe then came that mayden fayre,
+    With ladyes laced in pall,
+  And halfe a hundred of bold knightes,
+    To bring her from bowre to hall;
+  And as many gentle squiers,
+    To tend upon them all.
+
+  The talents of golde were on her head sette,
+    Hanged low downe to her knee;
+  And everye ring on her small finger
+    Shone of the chrystall free.
+
+  Saies, God you save, my deere madam;
+    Saies, God you save and see.
+  Said, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
+    Right welcome unto mee.
+
+  And if you love me, as you saye,
+    Soe well and hartilye,
+  All that ever you are comin about
+    Sooner sped now itt shal bee.
+
+  Then bespake her father deare:
+    My daughter, I saye naye;
+  Remember well the kyng of Spayne,
+    What he sayd yesterday.
+
+  He wold pull downe my hales and castles,
+     And reeve me of my life.
+  I cannot blame him if he doe,
+     If I reave him of his wyfe.
+
+  Your castles and your towres, father,
+     Are stronglye built aboute;
+  And therefore of the king of Spaine
+     Wee neede not stande in doubt.
+
+  Plight me your troth, nowe, kyng Estmere,
+     By heaven and your righte hand,
+  That you will marrye me to your wyfe,
+     And make me queene of your land.
+
+  Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth
+     By heaven and his righte hand,
+  That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe,
+     And make her queene of his land.
+
+  And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,
+     To goe to his owne countree,
+  To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,
+     That marryed the might bee.
+
+  They had not ridden scant a myle,
+     A myle forthe of the towne,
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
+     With kempes many one.
+
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
+     With manye a bold barone,
+  Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,
+     Tother daye to carrye her home.
+
+  Shee sent one after kyng Estmere
+     In all the spede might bee,
+  That he must either turne againe and fighte,
+     Or goe home and loose his ladye.
+
+  One whyle then the page he went,
+     Another while he ranne;
+  Tull he had oretaken king Estmere,
+      I wis, he never blanne.
+
+  Tydings, tydings, kyng Estmere!
+     What tydinges nowe, my boye?
+  O tydinges I can tell to you,
+     That will you sore annoye.
+
+  You had not ridden scant a mile,
+     A mile out of the towne,
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne
+     With kempes many a one:
+
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne
+     With manye a bold barone,
+  Tone daye to marrye king Adlands daughter,
+     Tother daye to carry her home.
+
+  My ladye fayre she greetes you well,
+   And ever-more well by mee:
+  You must either turne againe and fighte,
+   Or goe home and loose your ladye.
+
+  Saies, Reade me, reade me, deere brother,
+   My reade shall ryde at thee,
+  Whether it is better to turne and fighte,
+   Or goe home and loose my ladye.
+
+  Now hearken to me, sayes Adler yonge,
+   And your reade must rise at me,
+  I quicklye will devise a waye
+   To sette thy ladye free.
+
+  My mother was a westerne woman,
+   And learned in gramarye,
+  And when I learned at the schole,
+   Something she taught itt mee.
+
+  There growes an hearbe within this field,
+   And iff it were but knowne,
+  His color, which is whyte and redd,
+   It will make blacke and browne:
+
+  His color, which is browne and blacke,
+   Itt will make redd and whyte;
+  That sworde is not in all Englande,
+   Upon his coate will byte.
+
+  And you shall be a harper, brother,
+    Out of the north countrye;
+  And He be your boy, soe faine of fighte,
+    And beare your harpe by your knee.
+
+  And you shal be the best harper,
+    That ever tooke harpe in hand;
+  And I wil be the best singer,
+    That ever sung in this lande.
+
+  Itt shal be written on our forheads
+    All and in grammarye,
+  That we towe are the boldest men,
+    That are in all Christentye.
+
+  And thus they renisht them to ryde,
+    On tow good renish steedes;
+  And when they came to king Adlands hall,
+    Of redd gold shone their weedes.
+
+  And whan they came to kyng Adlands hall,
+    Untill the fayre hall yate,
+  There they found a proud porter
+    Rearing himselfe thereatt.
+
+  Sayes, Christ thee save, thou proud porter;
+    Sayes, Christ thee save and see.
+  Nowe you be welcome, sayd the porter,
+    Of whatsoever land ye bee.
+
+  Wee beene harpers, sayd Adler younge,
+    Come out of the northe countrye;
+  Wee beene come hither untill this place,
+    This proud weddinge for to see.
+
+  Sayd, And your color were white and redd,
+    As it is blacke and browne,
+  I wold saye king Estmere and his brother,
+    Were comen untill this towne.
+
+  Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,
+    Layd itt on the porters arme:
+  And ever we will thee, proud porter,
+    Thow wilt saye us no harme.
+
+  Sore he looked on king Estmere,
+    And sore he handled the ryng,
+  Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,
+    He lett for no kind of thyng.
+
+  King Estmere he stabled his steede
+    Soe fayre att the hall bord;
+  The froth, that came from his brydle bitte,
+    Light in kyng Bremors beard.
+
+  Saies, Stable thy steed, thou proud harper,
+    Saies, Stable him in the stalle;
+  It doth not beseeme a proud harper
+    To stable 'him' in a kyngs halle.
+
+  My ladde he is no lither, he said,
+    He will doe nought that's meete;
+  And is there any man in this hall
+    Were able him to beate
+
+  Thou speakst proud words, sayes the king of Spaine,
+    Thou harper, here to mee:
+  There is a man within this halle
+    Will beate thy ladd and thee.
+
+  O let that man come downe, he said,
+    A sight of him wold I see;
+  And when hee hath beaten well my ladd,
+    Then he shall beate of mee.
+
+  Downe then came the kemperye man,
+    And looketh him in the eare;
+  For all the gold, that was under heaven,
+    He durst not neigh him neare.
+
+  And how nowe, kempe, said the Kyng of Spaine,
+    And how what aileth thee?
+  He saies, It is writt in his forhead
+    All and in gramarye,
+  That for all the gold that is under heaven
+    I dare not neigh him nye.
+
+  Then Kyng Estmere pulld forth his harpe,
+    And plaid a pretty thinge:
+  The ladye upstart from the borde,
+    And wold have gone from the king.
+
+  Stay thy harpe, thou proud harper,
+    For Gods love I pray thee,
+  For and thou playes as thou beginns,
+    Thou'lt till my bryde from mee.
+
+  He stroake upon his harpe againe,
+    And playd a pretty thinge;
+  The ladye lough a loud laughter,
+    As shee sate by the king.
+
+  Saies, Sell me thy harpe, thou proud harper,
+    And thy stringes all,
+  For as many gold nobles 'thou shall have'
+    As heere bee ringes in the hall.
+
+  What wold ye doe with my harpe,' he sayd,'
+    If I did sell itt yee?
+  "To playe my wiffe and me a fitt,
+    When abed together wee bee."
+
+  Now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay,
+    As shee sitts by thy knee,
+  And as many gold nobles I will give,
+    As leaves been on a tree.
+
+  And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay,
+    Iff I did sell her thee?
+  More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye
+    To lye by mee then thee.
+
+  Hee played agayne both loud and shrille,
+    And Adler he did syng,
+  "O ladye, this is thy owne true love;
+    Noe harper, but a kyng.
+
+  "O ladye, this is thy owne true love,
+    As playnlye thou mayest see;
+  And He rid thee of that foule paynim,
+    Who partes thy love and thee."
+
+  The ladye looked, the ladye blushte,
+    And blushte and lookt agayne,
+  While Adler he hath drawne his brande,
+    And hath the Sowdan slayne.
+
+  Up then rose the kemperye men,
+    And loud they gan to crye:
+  Ah; traytors, yee have slayne our kyng,
+    And therefore yee shall dye.
+
+  Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,
+    And swith he drew his brand;
+  And Estmere he, and Adler yonge
+    Right stiffe in slodr can stand.
+
+  And aye their swordes soe sore can byte,
+    Throughe help of Gramarye,
+  That soone they have slayne the kempery men,
+    Or forst them forth to flee.
+
+  Kyng Estmere took that fayre ladye,
+    And marryed her to his wiffe,
+  And brought her home to merry England
+    With her to leade his life.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+
+
+  An ancient story Ile tell you anon
+  Of a notable prince, that was called King John;
+  And he ruled England with maine and with might,
+  For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.
+
+  And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,
+  Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye;
+  How for his house-keeping, and high renowne,
+  They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
+
+  An hundred men, the king did heare say,
+  The abbot kept in his house every day;
+  And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,
+  In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
+
+  How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,
+  Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,
+  And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,
+  I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.
+
+  My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne,
+  I never spend nothing, but what is my owne;
+  And I trust, your grace will doe me no deere,
+  For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.
+
+  Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe,
+  And now for the same thou needest must dye;
+  For except thou canst answer me questions three,
+  Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
+
+  And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead,
+  With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,
+  Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
+  Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
+
+  Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,
+  How soone I may ride the whole world about.
+  And at the third question thou must not shrink,
+  But tell me here truly what I do think.
+
+  O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
+  Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:
+  But if you will give me but three weekes space,
+  Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.
+
+  Now three weeks space to thee will I give,
+  And that is the longest time thou hast to live;
+  For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
+  Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.
+
+  Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,
+  And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;
+  But never a doctor there was so wise,
+  That could with his learning an answer devise.
+
+  Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,
+  And he mett his shepheard a going to fold:
+  How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;
+  What newes do you bring us from good King John?
+
+  "Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give;
+  That I have but three days more to live:
+  For if I do not answer him questions three,
+  My head will be smitten from my bodie.
+
+  The first is to tell him there in that stead,
+  With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,
+  Among all his liege men so noble of birth,
+  To within one penny of all what he is worth.
+
+  The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
+  How soon he may ride this whole world about:
+  And at the third question I must not shrinke,
+  But tell him there truly what he does thinke."
+
+  Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,
+  That a fool he may learn a wise man witt?
+  Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,
+  And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
+
+  Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
+  I am like your lordship, as ever may bee:
+  And if you will but lend me your gowne,
+  There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.
+
+  Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have,
+  With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;
+  With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,
+  Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.
+
+  Now welcome, sire abbott, the king he did say,
+  'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day;
+  For and if thou canst answer my questions three,
+  Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
+
+  And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
+  With my crowne of gold so fair on my head,
+  Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
+  Tell me to one penny what I am worth.
+
+  "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
+  Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told;
+  And twenty nine is the worth of thee,
+  For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,
+  I did not thinke I had been worth so littel!
+  --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,
+  How soon I may ride this whole world about.
+
+  "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
+  Until the next morning he riseth againe;
+  And then your grace need not make any doubt,
+  But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
+  I did not think, it could be gone so soone!
+  --Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,
+  But tell me here truly what I do thinke.
+
+  "Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:
+  You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbury;
+  But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
+  That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
+  He make thee lord abbot this day in his place!
+  "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
+  For alacke I can neither write ne reade."
+
+  Four nobles a weeke, then I will give thee,
+  For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee;
+  And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,
+  Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.
+
+
+
+
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+
+
+  In Scarlet towne where I was borne,
+    There was a faire maid dwellin,
+  Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye!
+    Her name was Barbara Allen.
+
+  All in the merrye month of May,
+    When greene buds they were swellin,
+  Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,
+    For love of Barbara Allen.
+
+  He sent his man unto her then,
+    To the town where shee was dwellin;
+  You must come to my master deare,
+    Giff your name be Barbara Alien.
+
+  For death is printed on his face,
+    And ore his harte is stealin:
+  Then haste away to comfort him,
+    O lovelye Barbara Alien.
+
+  Though death be printed on his face,
+    And ore his harte is stealin,
+  Yet little better shall he bee
+    For bonny Barbara Alien.
+
+  So slowly, slowly, she came up,
+    And slowly she came nye him;
+  And all she sayd, when there she came,
+    Yong man, I think y'are dying.
+
+  He turned his face unto her strait,
+    With deadlye sorrow sighing;
+  O lovely maid, come pity mee,
+    Ime on my death-bed lying.
+
+  If on your death-bed you doe lye,
+    What needs the tale you are tellin;
+  I cannot keep you from your death;
+    Farewell, sayd Barbara Alien.
+
+  He turned his face unto the wall,
+    As deadlye pangs he fell in:
+  Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all,
+    Adieu to Barbara Allen.
+
+  As she was walking ore the fields,
+    She heard the bell a knellin;
+  And every stroke did seem to saye,
+    Unworthye Barbara Allen.
+
+  She turned her bodye round about,
+    And spied the corps a coming:
+  Laye down, lay down the corps, she sayd,
+    That I may look upon him.
+
+  With scornful eye she looked downe,
+    Her cheeke with laughter swellin;
+  Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine,
+    Unworthye Barbara Allen.
+
+  When he was dead, and laid in grave,
+    Her harte was struck with sorrowe,
+  O mother, mother, make my bed,
+    For I shall dye to-morrowe.
+
+  Hard-harted creature him to slight,
+    Who loved me so dearlye:
+  O that I had beene more kind to him
+    When he was alive and neare me!
+
+  She, on her death-bed as she laye,
+    Beg'd to be buried by him;
+  And sore repented of the daye,
+    That she did ere denye him.
+
+  Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all,
+    And shun the fault I fell in:
+  Henceforth take warning by the fall
+    Of cruel Barbara Allen.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+
+
+  When as King Henry rulde this land,
+    The second of that name,
+  Besides the queene, he dearly lovde
+    A faire and comely dame.
+
+  Most peerlesse was her beautye founde,
+    Her favour, and her face;
+  A sweeter creature in this worlde
+    Could never prince embrace.
+
+  Her crisped lockes like threads of golde
+    Appeard to each mans sight;
+  Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles,
+    Did cast a heavenlye light.
+
+  The blood within her crystal cheekes
+    Did such a colour drive,
+  As though the lillye and the rose
+    For mastership did strive.
+
+  Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde,
+    Her name was called so,
+  To whom our queene, dame Ellinor,
+    Was known a deadlye foe.
+
+  The king therefore, for her defence,
+    Against the furious queene,
+  At Woodstocke builded such a bower,
+    The like was never scene.
+
+  Most curiously that bower was built
+    Of stone and timber strong,
+  An hundred and fifty doors
+   Did to this bower belong:
+
+  And they so cunninglye contriv'd
+    With turnings round about,
+  That none but with a clue of thread,
+    Could enter in or out.
+
+  And for his love and ladyes sake,
+    That was so faire and brighte,
+  The keeping of this bower he gave
+    Unto a valiant knighte.
+
+  But fortune, that doth often frowne
+    Where she before did smile,
+  The kinges delighte and ladyes so
+    Full soon shee did beguile:
+
+  For why, the kinges ungracious sonne,
+    Whom he did high advance,
+  Against his father raised warres
+    Within the realme of France.
+
+  But yet before our comelye king
+    The English land forsooke,
+  Of Rosamond, his lady faire,
+    His farewelle thus he tooke:
+
+  "My Rosamonde, my only Rose,
+    That pleasest best mine eye:
+  The fairest flower in all the worlde
+    To feed my fantasye:
+
+  The flower of mine affected heart,
+    Whose sweetness doth excelle:
+  My royal Rose, a thousand times
+    I bid thee nowe farwelle!
+
+  For I must leave my fairest flower,
+    My sweetest Rose, a space,
+  And cross the seas to famous France,
+    Proud rebelles to abase.
+
+  But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt
+    My coming shortlye see,
+  And in my heart, when hence I am,
+    Ile beare my Rose with mee."
+
+  When Rosamond, that ladye brighte,
+    Did heare the king saye soe,
+  The sorrowe of her grieved heart
+    Her outward lookes did showe;
+
+  And from her cleare and crystall eyes
+    The teares gusht out apace,
+  Which like the silver-pearled dewe
+    Ranne downe her comely face.
+
+  Her lippes, erst like the corall redde,
+    Did waxe both wan and pale,
+  And for the sorrow she conceivde
+    Her vitall spirits faile;
+
+  And falling down all in a swoone
+    Before King Henryes face,
+  Full oft he in his princelye armes
+    Her bodye did embrace:
+
+  And twentye times, with watery eyes,
+    He kist her tender cheeke,
+  Untill he had revivde againe
+    Her senses milde and meeke.
+
+  Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?
+    The king did often say.
+  Because, quoth shee, to bloodye warres
+    My lord must part awaye.
+
+  But since your grace on forrayne coastes
+    Amonge your foes unkinde
+  Must goe to hazard life and limbe,
+    Why should I staye behinde?
+
+  Nay rather, let me, like a page,
+    Your sworde and target beare;
+  That on my breast the blowes may lighte,
+    Which would offend you there.
+
+  Or lett mee, in your royal tent,
+    Prepare your bed at nighte,
+  And with sweete baths refresh your grace,
+    Ar your returne from fighte.
+
+  So I your presence may enjoye
+    No toil I will refuse;
+  But wanting you, my life is death;
+    Nay, death Ild rather chuse!
+
+  "Content thy self, my dearest love;
+    Thy rest at home shall bee
+  In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle;
+    For travell fits not thee.
+
+  Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres;
+    Soft peace their sexe delights;
+  Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers;
+    Gay feastes, not cruell fights.'
+
+  My Rose shall safely here abide,
+    With musicke passe the daye;
+  Whilst I, amonge the piercing pikes,
+    My foes seeke far awaye.
+
+  My Rose shall shine in pearle, and golde,
+    Whilst Ime in armour dighte;
+  Gay galliards here my love shall dance,
+    Whilst I my foes goe fighte.
+
+  And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste
+    To bee my loves defence;
+  Be careful of my gallant Rose
+    When I am parted hence."
+
+  And therewithall he fetcht a sigh,
+    As though his heart would breake:
+  And Rosamonde, for very grief,
+    Not one plaine word could speake.
+
+  And at their parting well they mighte
+    In heart be grieved sore:
+  After that daye faire Rosamonde
+    The king did see no more.
+
+  For when his grace had past the seas,
+    And into France was gone;
+  With envious heart, Queene Ellinor,
+    To Woodstocke came anone.
+
+  And forth she calls this trustye knighte,
+    In an unhappy houre;
+  Who with his clue of twined thread,
+    Came from this famous bower.
+
+  And when that they had wounded him,
+    The queene this thread did gette,
+  And went where Ladye Rosamonde
+    Was like an angell sette.
+
+  But when the queene with stedfast eye
+    Beheld her beauteous face,
+  She was amazed in her minde
+    At her exceeding grace.
+
+  Cast off from thee those robes, she said,
+    That riche and costlye bee;
+  And drinke thou up this deadlye draught,
+    Which I have brought to thee.
+
+  Then presentlye upon her knees
+    Sweet Rosamonde did fall;
+  And pardon of the queene she crav'd
+    For her offences all.
+
+  "Take pitty on my youthfull yeares,"
+    Faire Rosamonde did crye;
+  "And lett mee not with poison stronge
+    Enforced bee to dye.
+
+  I will renounce my sinfull life,
+    And in some cloyster bide;
+  Or else be banisht, if you please,
+    To range the world soe wide.
+
+  And for the fault which I have done,
+    Though I was forc'd thereto,
+  Preserve my life, and punish mee
+    As you thinke meet to doe."
+
+  And with these words, her lillie handes
+    She wrunge full often there;
+  And downe along her lovely face
+    Did trickle many a teare.
+
+  But nothing could this furious queene
+    Therewith appeased bee;
+  The cup of deadlye poyson stronge,
+    As she knelt on her knee,
+
+  Shee gave this comelye dame to drinke;
+    Who tooke it in her hand,
+  And from her bended knee arose,
+    And on her feet did stand:
+
+  And casting up her eyes to heaven,
+    She did for mercye calle;
+  And drinking up the poison stronge,
+    Her life she lost withalle.
+
+  And when that death through everye limbe
+    Had showde its greatest spite,
+  Her chiefest foes did plaine confesse
+    Shee was a glorious wight.
+
+  Her body then they did entomb,
+    When life was fled away,
+  At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne,
+    As may be scene this day.
+
+
+
+
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+
+
+  When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre,
+    And leaves both large and longe,
+  Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrest
+    To heare the small birdes songe.
+
+  The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
+    Sitting upon the spraye,
+  Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,
+    In the greenwood where he lay.
+
+  Now by my faye, sayd jollye Robin,
+    A sweaven I had this night;
+  I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen,
+    That fast with me can fight.
+
+  Methought they did mee beate and binde,
+    And tooke my bow mee froe;
+  If I be Robin alive in this lande,
+    He be wroken on them towe.
+
+  Sweavens are swift, Master, quoth John,
+    As the wind that blowes ore a hill;
+  For if itt be never so loude this night,
+    To-morrow itt may be still.
+
+  Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
+    And John shall goe with mee,
+  For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen,
+    In greenwood where the bee.
+
+  Then the cast on their gownes of grene,
+    And tooke theyr bowes each one;
+  And they away to the greene forrest
+    A shooting forth are gone;
+
+  Until they came to the merry greenwood,
+    Where they had gladdest bee,
+  There were the ware of a wight yeoman,
+    His body leaned to a tree.
+
+  A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
+    Of manye a man the bane;
+  And he was clad in his capull hyde
+    Topp and tayll and mayne.
+
+  Stand you still, master, quoth Litle John,
+    Under this tree so grene,
+  And I will go to yond wight yeoman
+    To know what he doth meane.
+
+  Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,
+    And that I farley finde:
+  How offt send I my men beffore
+    And tarry my selfe behinde?
+
+  It is no cunning a knave to ken,
+    And a man but heare him speake;
+  And itt were not for bursting of my bowe.
+    John, I thy head wold breake.
+
+  As often wordes they breeden bale,
+    So they parted Robin and John;
+  And John is gone to Barnesdale;
+    The gates he knoweth eche one.
+
+  But when he came to Barnesdale,
+    Great heavinesse there hee hadd,
+  For he found tow of his owne fellowes
+    Were slaine both in a slade.
+
+  And Scarlette he was flyinge a-foote
+    Fast over stocke and stone,
+  For the sheriffe with seven score men
+    Fast after him is gone.
+
+  One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John,
+    With Christ his might and mayne:
+  Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast,
+    To stopp he shall be fayne.
+
+  Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,
+    And fetteled him to shoote:
+  The bow was made of a tender boughe,
+    And fell down to his foote.
+
+  Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
+    That ere thou grew on a tree;
+  For now this day thou art my bale,
+    My boote when thou shold bee.
+
+  His shoote it was but loosely shott,
+    Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
+  For itt mett one of the sheriffes men,
+    Good William a Trent was slaine.
+
+  It had bene better of William a Trent
+    To have bene abed with sorrowe,
+  Than to be that day in the green wood slade
+    To meet with Little Johns arrowe.
+
+  But as it is said, when men be mett
+    Fyve can doe more than three,
+  The sheriffe hath taken little John,
+    And bound him fast to a tree.
+
+  Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,
+    And hanged hye on a hill.
+  But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John,
+    If itt be Christ his will.
+
+  Let us leave talking of Little John,
+    And thinke of Robin Hood,
+  How he is gone to the wight yeoman,
+    Where under the leaves he stood.
+
+  Good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre,
+    Good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he:
+   Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande
+    A good archere thou sholdst bee.
+
+  I am wilfull of my waye, quo' the yeman,
+    And of my morning tyde.
+  He lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin;
+    Good fellow, He be thy guide.
+
+  I seeke an outlawe, the straunger sayd,
+    Men call him Robin Hood;
+  Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe,
+    Than fortye pound so good.
+
+  Now come with me, thou wighty yeman,
+    And Robin thou soone shalt see:
+  But first let us some pastime find
+    Under the greenwood tree.
+
+  First let us some masterye make
+    Among the woods so even,
+  Wee may chance to meet with Robin Hood
+    Here att some unsett steven.
+
+  They cut them downe two summer shroggs,
+    That grew both under a breere,
+  And sett them threescore rood in twaine
+    To shoot the prickes y-fere:
+
+  Lead on, good fellowe, quoth Robin Hood,
+    Lead on, I doe bidd thee.
+  Nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,
+    My leader thou shalt bee.
+
+  The first time Robin shot at the pricke,
+    He mist but an inch it froe:
+  The yeoman he was an archer good,
+    But he cold never shoote soe.
+
+  The second shoote had the wightye yeman,
+    He shote within the garlande:
+  But Robin he shott far better than hee,
+    For he clave the good pricke wande.
+
+  A blessing upon thy heart, he sayd;
+    Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode;
+  For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,
+    Thou wert better then Robin Hoode.
+
+  Now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he,
+    Under the leaves of lyne.
+  Nay by my faith, quoth bolde Robin,
+    Till thou have told me thine.
+
+  I dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee,
+    And Robin to take Ime sworne;
+  And when I am called by my right name
+    I am Guye of good Gisborne.
+
+  My dwelling is in this wood, sayes Robin,
+    By thee I set right nought:
+  I am Robin Hood of Barnesdale,
+    Whom thou so long hast sought.
+
+  He that hath neither beene kithe nor kin,
+    Might have scene a full fayre sight,
+  To see how together these yeomen went
+    With blades both browne and bright.
+
+  To see how these yeomen together they fought
+    Two howres of a summers day:
+  Yet neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy
+    Them fettled to flye away.
+
+  Robin was reachles on a roote,
+    And stumbled at that tyde;
+  And Guy was quick and nimble with-all,
+    And hitt him ore the left side.
+
+  Ah deere Lady, sayd Robin Hood, 'thou
+    That art both mother and may,'
+  I think it was never mans destinye
+    To dye before his day.
+
+  Robin thought on our ladye deere,
+    And soone leapt up againe,
+  And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke,
+    And he Sir Guy hath slayne.
+
+  He took Sir Guys head by the hayre,
+    And sticked itt on his bowes end:
+  Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe,
+    Which thing must have an ende.
+
+  Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,
+    And nicked Sir Guy in the face,
+  That he was never on woman born,
+    Cold tell whose head it was.
+
+  Saies, Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guye,
+    And with me be not wrothe,
+  If thou have had the worst stroked at my hand,
+    Thou shalt have the better clothe.
+
+  Robin did off his gowne of greene,
+    And on Sir Guy did it throwe,
+  And hee put on that capull hyde,
+    That cladd him topp to toe.
+
+  The bowe, the arrowes, and litle home,
+    Now with me I will beare;
+  For I will away to Barnesdale,
+    To see how my men doe fare.
+
+  Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth.
+    And a loud blast in it did blow.
+  That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
+    As he leaned under a lowe.
+
+  Hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe,
+    I heare now tydings good,
+  For yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blowe,
+    And he hath slaine Robin Hoode.
+
+  Yonder I heare Sir Guyes home blowe,
+    Itt blowes soe well in tyde,
+  And yonder comes that wightye yeoman,
+    Cladd in his capull hyde.
+
+  Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy,
+    Aske what thou wilt of mee.
+  O I will none of thy gold, sayd Robin,
+    Nor I will none of thy fee:
+
+  But now I have slaine the master, he sayes,
+    Let me go strike the knave;
+  This is all the rewarde I aske;
+    Nor noe other will I have.
+
+  Thou art a madman, said the sheriffe,
+    Thou sholdest have had a knights fee:
+  But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,
+    Well granted it shale be.
+
+  When Litle John heard his master speake,
+    Well knewe he it was his steven:
+  Now shall I be looset, quoth Litle John,
+    With Christ his might in heaven.
+
+  Fast Robin hee hyed him to Litle John,
+    He thought to loose him belive;
+  The sheriffe and all his companye
+    Fast after him did drive.
+  Stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd Robin;
+    Why draw you mee soe neere?
+  Itt was never the use in our countrye,
+    Ones shrift another shold heere.
+
+  But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe,
+    And losed John hand and foote,
+  And gave him Sir Guyes bow into his hand,
+    And bade it be his boote.
+
+  Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand,
+    His boltes and arrowes eche one:
+  When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,
+    He fettled him to be gone.
+
+  Towards his house in Nottingham towne
+    He fled full fast away;
+  And soe did all his companye:
+    Not one behind wold stay.
+
+  But he cold neither runne soe fast,
+    Nor away soe fast cold ryde,
+  But Litle John with an arrowe soe broad
+    He shott him into the 'back'-syde.
+
+
+
+
+THE BOY & THE MANTLE
+
+[Illustration: Boy and Mantle]
+
+  In Carleile dwelt King Arthur,
+    A prince of passing might;
+  And there maintain'd his table round,
+    Beset with many a knight.
+
+  And there he kept his Christmas
+    With mirth and princely cheare,
+  When, lo! a straunge and cunning boy
+    Before him did appeare.
+
+  A kirtle and a mantle
+    This boy had him upon,
+  With brooches, rings, and owches,
+    Full daintily bedone.
+
+  He had a sarke of silk
+    About his middle meet;
+  And thus, with seemely curtesy,
+    He did King Arthur greet.
+
+  "God speed thee, brave King Arthur,
+    Thus feasting in thy bowre;
+  And Guenever thy goodly queen,
+    That fair and peerlesse flowre.
+
+  "Ye gallant lords, and lordings,
+    I wish you all take heed,
+  Lest, what ye deem a blooming rose,
+    Should prove a cankred weed."
+
+  Then straitway from his bosome
+    A little wand he drew;
+  And with it eke a mantle
+    Of wondrous shape and hew.
+
+  "Now have you here, King Arthur,
+   Have this here of mee,
+  And give unto thy comely queen,
+   All-shapen as you see.
+
+  "No wife it shall become,
+    That once hath been to blame."
+  Then every knight in Arthur's court
+    Slye glaunced at his dame.
+
+  And first came Lady Guenever,
+    The mantle she must trye.
+  This dame, she was new-fangled,
+    And of a roving eye.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    And all was with it cladde,
+  From top to toe it shiver'd down,
+    As tho' with sheers beshradde.
+
+  One while it was too long,
+    Another while too short,
+  And wrinkled on her shoulders
+    In most unseemly sort.
+
+  Now green, now red it seemed,
+    Then all of sable hue.
+  "Beshrew me," quoth King Arthur,
+    "I think thou beest not true."
+
+  Down she threw the mantle,
+    Ne longer would not stay;
+  But, storming like a fury,
+    To her chamber flung away.
+
+  She curst the whoreson weaver,
+    That had the mantle wrought:
+  And doubly curst the froward impe,
+    Who thither had it brought.
+
+  "I had rather live in desarts
+    Beneath the green-wood tree;
+  Than here, base king, among thy groomes,
+    The sport of them and thee."
+
+  Sir Kay call'd forth his lady,
+    And bade her to come near:
+  "Yet, dame, if thou be guilty,
+    I pray thee now forbear."
+
+  This lady, pertly gigling,
+    With forward step came on,
+  And boldly to the little boy
+    With fearless face is gone.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    With purpose for to wear;
+  It shrunk up to her shoulder,
+    And left her b--- side bare.
+
+  Then every merry knight,
+    That was in Arthur's court,
+  Gib'd, and laught, and flouted,
+    To see that pleasant sport.
+
+  Downe she threw the mantle,
+    No longer bold or gay,
+  But with a face all pale and wan,
+    To her chamber slunk away.
+
+  Then forth came an old knight,
+    A pattering o'er his creed;
+  And proffer'd to the little boy
+    Five nobles to his meed;
+
+  "And all the time of Christmass
+    Plumb-porridge shall be thine,
+  If thou wilt let my lady fair
+    Within the mantle shine."
+
+  A saint his lady seemed,
+    With step demure and slow,
+  And gravely to the mantle
+    With mincing pace doth goe.
+
+  When she the same had taken,
+    That was so fine and thin,
+  It shrivell'd all about her,
+    And show'd her dainty skin.
+
+  Ah! little did HER mincing,
+    Or HIS long prayers bestead;
+  She had no more hung on her,
+    Than a tassel and a thread.
+
+  Down she threwe the mantle,
+    With terror and dismay,
+  And, with a face of scarlet,
+    To her chamber hyed away.
+
+  Sir Cradock call'd his lady,
+    And bade her to come neare:
+  "Come, win this mantle, lady,
+    And do me credit here.
+
+  "Come, win this mantle, lady,
+    For now it shall be thine,
+  If thou hast never done amiss,
+    Sith first I made thee mine."
+
+  The lady, gently blushing,
+    With modest grace came on,
+  And now to trye the wondrous charm
+    Courageously is gone.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    And put it on her backe,
+  About the hem it seemed
+    To wrinkle and to cracke.
+
+  "Lye still," shee cryed, "O mantle!
+    And shame me not for nought,
+  I'll freely own whate'er amiss,
+    Or blameful I have wrought.
+
+  "Once I kist Sir Cradocke
+    Beneathe the green-wood tree:
+  Once I kist Sir Cradocke's mouth
+    Before he married mee."
+
+  When thus she had her shriven,
+    And her worst fault had told,
+  The mantle soon became her
+    Right comely as it shold.
+
+  Most rich and fair of colour,
+    Like gold it glittering shone:
+  And much the knights in Arthur's court
+    Admir'd her every one.
+
+  Then towards King Arthur's table
+    The boy he turn'd his eye:
+  Where stood a boar's head garnished
+    With bayes and rosemarye.
+
+  When thrice he o'er the boar's head
+    His little wand had drawne,
+  Quoth he, "There's never a cuckold's knife
+    Can carve this head of brawne."
+
+  Then some their whittles rubbed
+    On whetstone, and on hone:
+  Some threwe them under the table,
+    And swore that they had none.
+
+  Sir Cradock had a little knife,
+    Of steel and iron made;
+  And in an instant thro' the skull
+    He thrust the shining blade.
+
+  He thrust the shining blade
+    Full easily and fast;
+  And every knight in Arthur's court
+    A morsel had to taste.
+
+  The boy brought forth a horne,
+    All golden was the rim:
+  Saith he, "No cuckolde ever can
+    Set mouth unto the brim.
+
+  "No cuckold can this little horne
+    Lift fairly to his head;
+  But or on this, or that side,
+    He shall the liquor shed."
+
+  Some shed it on their shoulder,
+    Some shed it on their thigh;
+  And hee that could not hit his mouth,
+    Was sure to hit his eye.
+
+  Thus he, that was a cuckold,
+    Was known of every man:
+  But Cradock lifted easily,
+    And wan the golden can.
+
+  Thus boar's head, horn and mantle,
+    Were this fair couple's meed:
+  And all such constant lovers,
+    God send them well to speed.
+
+  Then down in rage came Guenever,
+    And thus could spightful say,
+  "Sir Cradock's wife most wrongfully
+    Hath borne the prize away.
+
+  "See yonder shameless woman,
+    That makes herselfe so clean:
+  Yet from her pillow taken
+    Thrice five gallants have been.
+
+  "Priests, clarkes, and wedded men,
+    Have her lewd pillow prest:
+  Yet she the wonderous prize forsooth
+    Must beare from all the rest."
+
+  Then bespake the little boy,
+    Who had the same in hold:
+  "Chastize thy wife, King Arthur,
+    Of speech she is too bold:
+
+  "Of speech she is too bold,
+    Of carriage all too free;
+  Sir King, she hath within thy hall
+    A cuckold made of thee.
+
+  "All frolick light and wanton
+    She hath her carriage borne:
+  And given thee for a kingly crown
+    To wear a cuckold's horne."
+
+
+
+
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+
+PART THE FIRST
+
+
+  Lithe and listen, gentlemen,
+    To sing a song I will beginne:
+  It is of a lord of faire Scotland,
+    Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne.
+
+  His father was a right good lord,
+    His mother a lady of high degree;
+  But they, alas! were dead, him froe,
+    And he lov'd keeping companie.
+
+  To spend the daye with merry cheare,
+    To drinke and revell every night,
+  To card and dice from eve to morne,
+    It was, I ween, his hearts delighte.
+
+  To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare,
+    To alwaye spend and never spare,
+  I wott, an' it were the king himselfe,
+    Of gold and fee he mote be bare.
+
+  Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Linne
+    Till all his gold is gone and spent;
+  And he maun sell his landes so broad,
+    His house, and landes, and all his rent.
+
+  His father had a keen stewarde,
+    And John o' the Scales was called hee:
+  But John is become a gentel-man,
+    And John has gott both gold and fee.
+
+  Sayes, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne,
+    Let nought disturb thy merry cheere;
+  Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad,
+    Good store of gold Ile give thee heere,
+
+  My gold is gone, my money is spent;
+    My lande nowe take it unto thee:
+  Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales,
+    And thine for aye my lande shall bee.
+
+  Then John he did him to record draw,
+    And John he cast him a gods-pennie;
+  But for every pounde that John agreed,
+    The lande, I wis, was well worth three.
+
+  He told him the gold upon the borde,
+    He was right glad his land to winne;
+  The gold is thine, the land is mine,
+    And now Ile be the lord of Linne.
+
+  Thus he hath sold his land soe broad,
+    Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne,
+  All but a poore and lonesome lodge,
+    That stood far off in a lonely glenne.
+
+  For soe he to his father hight.
+    My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee,
+  Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad,
+    And thou wilt spend thy gold so free:
+
+  But sweare me nowe upon the roode,
+    That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend;
+  For when all the world doth frown on thee,
+    Thou there shalt find a faithful friend.
+
+  The heire of Linne is full of golde:
+    And come with me, my friends, sayd hee,
+  Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make,
+    And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee.
+
+  They ranted, drank, and merry made,
+    Till all his gold it waxed thinne;
+  And then his friendes they slunk away;
+    They left the unthrifty heire of Linne.
+
+  He had never a penny in his purse,
+    Never a penny left but three,
+  And one was brass, another was lead,
+    And another it was white money.
+
+  Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    Nowe well-aday, and woe is mee,
+  For when I was the lord of Linne,
+    I never wanted gold nor fee.
+
+  But many a trustye friend have I,
+    And why shold I feel dole or care?
+  Ile borrow of them all by turnes,
+    Soe need I not be never bare.
+
+  But one, I wis, was not at home;
+    Another had payd his gold away;
+  Another call'd him thriftless loone,
+    And bade him sharpely wend his way.
+
+  Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    Now well-aday, and woe is me;
+  For when I had my landes so broad,
+    On me they liv'd right merrilee.
+
+  To beg my bread from door to door
+    I wis, it were a brenning shame:
+  To rob and steale it were a sinne:
+    To worke my limbs I cannot frame.
+
+  Now Ile away to lonesome lodge,
+    For there my father bade me wend;
+  When all the world should frown on mee
+    I there shold find a trusty friend.
+
+
+PART THE SECOND
+
+
+  Away then hyed the heire of Linne
+    Oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne,
+  Untill he came to lonesome lodge,
+    That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne.
+
+  He looked up, he looked downe,
+    In hope some comfort for to winne:
+  But bare and lothly were the walles.
+    Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne.
+
+  The little windowe dim and darke
+    Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe;
+  No shimmering sunn here ever shone;
+    No halesome breeze here ever blew.
+
+  No chair, ne table he mote spye,
+    No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed,
+  Nought save a rope with renning noose,
+    That dangling hung up o'er his head.
+
+  And over it in broad letters,
+    These words were written so plain to see:
+  "Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all,
+    And brought thyselfe to penurie?
+
+  "All this my boding mind misgave,
+    I therefore left this trusty friend:
+  Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace,
+    And all thy shame and sorrows end."
+
+  Sorely shent wi' this rebuke,
+    Sorely shent was the heire of Linne,
+  His heart, I wis, was near to brast     With guilt and sorrowe, shame
+and sinne.
+
+  Never a word spake the heire of Linne,
+    Never a word he spake but three:
+  "This is a trusty friend indeed,
+    And is right welcome unto mee."
+
+  Then round his necke the corde he drewe,
+    And sprung aloft with his bodie:
+  When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine,
+    And to the ground came tumbling hee.
+
+  Astonyed lay the heire of Linne,
+    Ne knewe if he were live or dead:
+  At length he looked, and saw a bille,
+    And in it a key of gold so redd.
+
+  He took the bill, and lookt it on,
+    Strait good comfort found he there:
+  It told him of a hole in the wall,
+    In which there stood three chests in-fere.
+
+  Two were full of the beaten golde,
+   The third was full of white money;
+  And over them in broad letters
+   These words were written so plaine to see:
+
+  "Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere;
+   Amend thy life and follies past;
+  For but thou amend thee of thy life,
+   That rope must be thy end at last."
+
+  And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne;
+   And let it bee, but if I amend:
+  For here I will make mine avow,
+   This reade shall guide me to the end.
+
+  Away then went with a merry cheare,
+   Away then went the heire of Linne;
+  I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne,
+   Till John o' the Scales house he did winne.
+
+  And when he came to John o' the Scales,
+   Upp at the speere then looked hee;
+  There sate three lords upon a rowe,
+   Were drinking of the wine so free.
+
+  And John himself sate at the bord-head,
+   Because now lord of Linne was hee.
+  I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales,
+   One forty pence for to lend mee.
+
+  Away, away, thou thriftless loone;
+    Away, away, this may not bee:
+  For Christs curse on my head, he sayd,
+    If ever I trust thee one pennie.
+
+  Then bespake the heire of Linne,
+    To John o' the Scales wife then spake he:
+  Madame, some almes on me bestowe,
+    I pray for sweet Saint Charitie.
+
+  Away, away, thou thriftless loone,
+    I swear thou gettest no almes of mee;
+  For if we shold hang any losel heere,
+    The first we wold begin with thee.
+
+  Then bespake a good fellowe,
+    Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord
+  Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne;
+    Some time thou wast a well good lord;
+
+  Some time a good fellow thou hast been,
+    And sparedst not thy gold nor fee;
+  Therefore He lend thee forty pence,
+    And other forty if need bee.
+
+  And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales,
+    To let him sit in thy companie:
+  For well I wot thou hadst his land,
+    And a good bargain it was to thee.
+
+  Up then spake him John o' the Scales,
+    All wood he answer'd him againe:
+  Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd,
+    But I did lose by that bargaine.
+
+  And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne,
+    Before these lords so faire and free,
+  Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape,
+    By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.
+
+  I draw you to record, lords, he said.
+    With that he cast him a gods pennie:
+  Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    And here, good John, is thy money.
+
+  And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold,
+    And layd them down upon the bord:
+  All woe begone was John o' the Scales,
+    Soe shent he cold say never a word.
+
+  He told him forth the good red gold,
+    He told it forth with mickle dinne.
+  The gold is thine, the land is mine,
+    And now Ime againe the lord of Linne.
+
+  Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellowe,
+    Forty pence thou didst lend me:
+  Now I am againe the lord of Linne,
+    And forty pounds I will give thee.
+
+  He make the keeper of my forrest,
+    Both of the wild deere and the tame;
+  For but I reward thy bounteous heart,
+    I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.
+
+  Now welladay! sayth Joan o' the Scales:
+    Now welladay! and woe is my life!
+  Yesterday I was lady of Linne,
+    Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife.
+
+  Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne;
+    Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee:
+  Christs curse light on me, if ever again
+    I bring my lands in jeopardy.
+
+
+
+
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+
+
+  I Read that once in Affrica
+    A princely wight did raine,
+  Who had to name Cophetua,
+    As poets they did faine:
+  From natures lawes he did decline,
+  For sure he was not of my mind.
+  He cared not for women-kinde,
+    But did them all disdaine.
+  But, marke, what hapened on a day,
+  As he out of his window lay,
+  He saw a beggar all in gray,
+    The which did cause his paine.
+
+  The blinded boy, that shootes so trim,
+    From heaven downe did hie;
+  He drew a dart and shot at him,
+    In place where he did lye:
+  Which soone did pierse him to the quicke.
+  And when he felt the arrow pricke,
+  Which in his tender heart did sticke,
+    He looketh as he would dye.
+  What sudden chance is this, quoth he,
+  That I to love must subject be,
+  Which never thereto would agree,
+    But still did it defie?
+
+  Then from the window he did come,
+    And laid him on his bed,
+  A thousand heapes of care did runne
+    Within his troubled head:
+  For now he meanes to crave her love,
+  And now he seekes which way to proove
+  How he his fancie might remoove,
+    And not this beggar wed.
+  But Cupid had him so in snare,
+  That this poor begger must prepare
+  A salve to cure him of his care,
+    Or els he would be dead.
+
+  And, as he musing thus did lye,
+    He thought for to devise
+  How he might have her companye,
+    That so did 'maze his eyes.
+  In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life;
+  For surely thou shalt be my wife,
+  Or else this hand with bloody knife
+    The Gods shall sure suffice.
+  Then from his bed he soon arose,
+  And to his pallace gate he goes;
+  Full little then this begger knowes
+    When she the king espies.
+
+  The Gods preserve your majesty,
+    The beggers all gan cry:
+  Vouchsafe to give your charity
+    Our childrens food to buy.
+  The king to them his pursse did cast,
+    And they to part it made great haste;
+  This silly woman was the last
+    That after them did hye.
+  The king he cal'd her back againe,
+  And unto her he gave his chaine;
+  And said, With us you shal remaine
+    Till such time as we dye:
+
+  For thou, quoth he, shalt be my wife,
+    And honoured for my queene;
+  With thee I meane to lead my life,
+    As shortly shall be seene:
+  Our wedding shall appointed be,
+  And every thing in its degree:
+  Come on, quoth he, and follow me,
+    Thou shalt go shift thee cleane.
+  What is thy name, faire maid? quoth he.
+  Penelophon, O king, quoth she;
+  With that she made a lowe courtsey;
+    A trim one as I weene.
+
+  Thus hand in hand along they walke
+    Unto the king's pallace:
+  The king with curteous comly talke
+    This beggar doth imbrace:
+  The begger blusheth scarlet red,
+  And straight againe as pale as lead,
+  But not a word at all she said,
+    She was in such amaze.
+  At last she spake with trembling voyce,
+  And said, O king, I doe rejoyce
+  That you wil take me from your choyce,
+    And my degree's so base.
+
+  And when the wedding day was come,
+    The king commanded strait
+  The noblemen both all and some
+    Upon the queene to wait.
+  And she behaved herself that day,
+  As if she had never walkt the way;
+  She had forgot her gown of gray,
+    Which she did weare of late.
+  The proverbe old is come to passe,
+  The priest, when he begins his masse,
+  Forgets that ever clerke he was;
+    He knowth not his estate.
+
+  Here you may read, Cophetua,
+    Though long time fancie-fed,
+  Compelled by the blinded boy
+    The begger for to wed:
+  He that did lovers lookes disdaine,
+  To do the same was glad and faine,
+  Or else he would himselfe have slaine,
+  In storie, as we read.
+    Disdaine no whit, O lady deere,
+    But pitty now thy servant heere,
+    Least that it hap to thee this yeare,
+      As to that king it did.
+
+  And thus they led a quiet life
+    Duringe their princely raigne;
+  And in a tombe were buried both,
+    As writers sheweth plaine.
+  The lords they tooke it grievously,
+  The ladies tooke it heavily,
+  The commons cryed pitiously,
+    Their death to them was paine,
+    Their fame did sound so passingly,
+    That it did pierce the starry sky,
+    And throughout all the world did flye
+      To every princes realme.
+
+[Illustration:  Decorative ]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+
+
+  'When Flora with her fragrant flowers
+    Bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye,
+  And Neptune with his daintye showers
+    Came to present the monthe of Maye;'
+  King Henrye rode to take the ayre,
+    Over the river of Thames past hee;
+  When eighty merchants of London came,
+    And downe they knelt upon their knee.
+
+  "O yee are welcome, rich merchants;
+    Good saylors, welcome unto mee."
+  They swore by the rood, they were saylors good,
+    But rich merchants they cold not bee:
+  "To France nor Flanders dare we pass:
+    Nor Bourdeaux voyage dare we fare;
+  And all for a rover that lyes on the seas,
+    Who robbs us of our merchant ware."
+
+  King Henrye frowned, and turned him rounde,
+    And swore by the Lord, that was mickle of might,
+  "I thought he had not beene in the world,
+    Durst have wrought England such unright."
+  The merchants sighed, and said, alas!
+    And thus they did their answer frame,
+  He is a proud Scott, that robbs on the seas,
+    And Sir Andrewe Barton is his name.
+
+  The king lookt over his left shoulder,
+    And an angrye look then looked hee:
+  "Have I never a lorde in all my realme,
+    Will feitch yond tray tor unto me?"
+  Yea, that dare I; Lord Howard sayes;
+    Yea, that dare I with heart and hand;
+  If it please your grace to give me leave,
+    Myselfe wil be the only man.
+
+  Thou art but yong; the kyng replyed:
+    Yond Scott hath numbered manye a yeare.
+  "Trust me, my liege, lie make him quail,
+    Or before my prince I will never appeare."
+  Then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have,
+    And chuse them over my realme so free;
+  Besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes,
+    To guide the great shipp on the sea.
+
+  The first man, that Lord Howard chose,
+    Was the ablest gunner in all the realm,
+  Thoughe he was three score yeeres and ten;
+    Good Peter Simon was his name.
+  Peter, sais hee, I must to the sea,
+    To bring home a traytor live or dead:
+  Before all others I have chosen thee;
+    Of a hundred gunners to be the head.
+
+  If you, my lord, have chosen mee
+    Of a hundred gunners to be the head,
+  Then hang me up on your maine-mast tree,
+    If I misse my marke one shilling bread.
+  My lord then chose a boweman rare,
+    "Whose active hands had gained fame."
+  In Yorkshire was this gentleman borne,
+    And William Horseley was his name.
+
+  Horseley, said he, I must with speede
+    Go seeke a traytor on the sea,
+  And now of a hundred bowemen brave
+    To be the head I have chosen thee.
+  If you, quoth hee, have chosen mee
+    Of a hundred bowemen to be the head
+  On your main-mast He hanged bee,
+    If I miss twelvescore one penny bread.
+
+  With pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold,
+    This noble Howard is gone to the sea;
+  With a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare,
+    Out at Thames mouth sayled he.
+  And days he scant had sayled three,
+    Upon the 'voyage,' he tooke in hand,
+  But there he mett with a noble shipp,
+    And stoutely made itt stay and stand.
+
+  Thou must tell me, Lord Howard said,
+    Now who thou art, and what's thy name;
+  And shewe me where they dwelling is:
+    And whither bound, and whence thou came.
+  My name is Henry Hunt, quoth hee
+    With a heavye heart, and a carefull mind;
+  I and my shipp doe both belong
+    To the Newcastle, that stands upon Tyne.
+
+  Hast thou not heard, nowe, Henrye Hunt,
+    As thou hast sayled by daye and by night,
+  Of a Scottish rover on the seas;
+    Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight!
+  Then ever he sighed, and said alas!
+    With a grieved mind, and well away!
+  But over-well I knowe that wight,
+    I was his prisoner yesterday.
+
+  As I was sayling uppon the sea,
+    A Burdeaux voyage for to fare;
+  To his hach-borde he clasped me,
+    And robd me of all my merchant ware:
+  And mickle debts, God wot, I owe,
+    And every man will have his owne;
+  And I am nowe to London bounde,
+    Of our gracious king to beg a boone.
+
+  That shall not need, Lord Howard sais;
+    Lett me but once that robber see,
+  For every penny tane thee froe
+    It shall be doubled shillings three.
+  Nowe God forefend, the merchant said,
+    That you should seek soe far amisse!
+  God keepe you out of that traitors hands!
+    Full litle ye wott what a man hee is.
+
+  Hee is brasse within, and steele without,
+    With beames on his topcastle stronge;
+  And eighteen pieces of ordinance
+    He carries on each side along:
+  And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight,
+    St. Andrewes crosse that is his guide;
+  His pinnace beareth ninescore men,
+    And fifteen canons on each side.
+
+  Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one;
+    I sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall;
+  He wold overcome them everye one,
+    If once his beames they doe downe fall.
+  This is cold comfort, sais my lord,
+    To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea:
+  Yet He bring him and his ship to shore,
+    Or to Scottland hee shall carrye mee.
+
+
+  Then a noble gunner you must have,
+    And he must aim well with his ee,
+  And sinke his pinnace into the sea,
+    Or else hee never orecome will bee:
+  And if you chance his shipp to borde,
+    This counsel I must give withall,
+  Let no man to his topcastle goe
+    To strive to let his beams downe fall.
+
+
+  And seven pieces of ordinance,
+    I pray your honour lend to mee,
+  On each side of my shipp along,
+    And I will lead you on the sea.
+  A glasse He sett, that may be seene
+    Whether you sail by day or night;
+  And to-morrowe, I sweare, by nine of the clocke
+    You shall meet with Sir Andrewe Barton knight.
+
+
+  THE SECOND PART
+
+
+  The merchant sett my lorde a glasse
+    Soe well apparent in his sight,
+  And on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke,
+    He shewed him Sir Andrewe Barton knight.
+  His hachebord it was 'gilt' with gold,
+    Soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee:
+  Nowe by my faith, Lord Howarde sais,
+    This is a gallant sight to see.
+
+  Take in your ancyents, standards eke,
+    So close that no man may them see;
+  And put me forth a white willowe wand,
+    As merchants use to sayle the sea.
+  But they stirred neither top, nor mast;
+    Stoutly they past Sir Andrew by.
+  What English churles are yonder, he sayd,
+    That can soe little curtesye?
+
+  Now by the roode, three yeares and more
+    I have beene admirall over the sea;
+  And never an English nor Portingall
+    Without my leave can passe this way.
+  Then called he forth his stout pinnace;
+    "Fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee:
+  I sweare by the masse, yon English churles
+    Shall all hang att my maine-mast tree."
+
+  With that the pinnace itt shot off,
+    Full well Lord Howard might it ken;
+  For itt stroke down my lord's fore mast,
+    And killed fourteen of his men.
+  Come hither, Simon, sayes my lord,
+    Looke that thy word be true, thou said;
+  For at my maine-mast thou shalt hang,
+    If thou misse thy marke one shilling bread.
+
+  Simon was old, but his heart itt was bold;
+    His ordinance he laid right lowe;
+  He put in chaine full nine yardes long,
+    With other great shott lesse, and moe;
+  And he lette goe his great gunnes shott:
+    Soe well he settled itt with his ee,
+  The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe,
+    He see his pinnace sunke in the sea.
+
+  And when he saw his pinnace sunke,
+    Lord, how his heart with rage did swell!
+  "Nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon;
+    Ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell."
+  When my lord sawe Sir Andrewe loose,
+    Within his heart he was full faine:
+  "Now spread your ancyents, strike up your drummes,
+    Sound all your trumpetts out amaine."
+
+  Fight on, my men, Sir Andrewe sais,
+    Weale howsoever this geere will sway;
+  Itt is my Lord Admirall of England,
+    Is come to seeke mee on the sea.
+  Simon had a sonne, who shott right well,
+    That did Sir Andrewe mickle scare;
+  In att his decke he gave a shott,
+    Killed threescore of his men of warre.
+
+  Then Henrye Hunt with rigour hott
+    Came bravely on the other side,
+  Soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree,
+    And killed fourscore men beside.
+  Nowe, out alas! Sir Andrewe cryed,
+    What may a man now thinke, or say?
+  Yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee,
+    He was my prisoner yesterday.
+
+  Come hither to me, thou Gordon good,
+    That aye wast readye att my call:
+  I will give thee three hundred markes,
+    If thou wilt let my beames downe fall.
+  Lord Howard hee then calld in haste,
+    "Horseley see thou be true in stead;
+  For thou shalt at the maine-mast hang,
+    If thou misse twelvescore one penny bread."
+
+  Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree,
+    He swarved it with might and maine;
+  But Horseley with a bearing arrowe,
+    Stroke the Gordon through the braine;
+  And he fell unto the haches again,
+    And sore his deadlye wounde did bleed:
+  Then word went through Sir Andrews men,
+    How that the Gordon hee was dead.
+
+  Come hither to mee, James Hambilton,
+    Thou art my only sisters sonne,
+  If thou wilt let my beames downe fall
+    Six hundred nobles thou hast wonne.
+  With that he swarved the maine-mast tree,
+    He swarved it with nimble art;
+  But Horseley with a broad arrowe
+    Pierced the Hambilton thorough the heart:
+
+  And downe he fell upon the deck,
+    That with his blood did streame amaine:
+  Then every Scott cryed, Well-away!
+    Alas! a comelye youth is slaine.
+  All woe begone was Sir Andrew then,
+    With griefe and rage his heart did swell:
+  "Go fetch me forth my armour of proofe,
+    For I will to the topcastle mysell."
+
+  "Goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe;
+    That gilded is with gold soe cleare:
+  God be with my brother John of Barton!
+    Against the Portingalls hee it ware;
+  And when he had on this armour of proofe,
+    He was a gallant sight to see:
+  Ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight,
+    My deere brother, could cope with thee."
+
+  Come hither Horseley, sayes my lord,
+    And looke your shaft that itt goe right,
+  Shoot a good shoote in time of need,
+    And for it thou shalt be made a knight.
+  Ile shoot my best, quoth Horseley then,
+    Your honour shall see, with might and maine;
+  But if I were hanged at your maine-mast,
+    I have now left but arrowes twaine.
+
+  Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree,
+   With right good will he swarved then:
+  Upon his breast did Horseley hitt,
+    But the arrow bounded back agen.
+  Then Horseley spyed a privye place
+    With a perfect eye in a secrette part;
+  Under the spole of his right arme
+    He smote Sir Andrew to the heart.
+
+  "Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes,
+    "A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine;
+  He but lye downe and bleede a while,
+    And then He rise and fight againe.
+  Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes,
+    "And never flinch before the foe;
+  And stand fast by St. Andrewes crosse
+    Until you heare my whistle blowe."
+
+  They never heard his whistle blow--
+    Which made their hearts waxe sore adread:
+  Then Horseley sayd, Aboard, my lord,
+    For well I wott Sir Andrew's dead.
+  They boarded then his noble shipp,
+    They boarded it with might and maine;
+  Eighteen score Scots alive they found,
+    The rest were either maimed or slaine.
+
+  Lord Howard tooke a sword in hand,
+    And off he smote Sir Andrewes head,
+  "I must have left England many a daye,
+    If thou wert alive as thou art dead."
+  He caused his body to be cast
+    Over the hatchboard into the sea,
+  And about his middle three hundred crownes:
+    "Wherever thou land this will bury thee."
+
+  Thus from the warres Lord Howard came,
+    And backe he sayled ore the maine,
+  With mickle joy and triumphing
+    Into Thames mouth he came againe.
+  Lord Howard then a letter wrote,
+    And sealed it with scale and ring;
+  "Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace,
+    As never did subject to a king:
+
+  "Sir Andrewes shipp I bring with mee;
+    A braver shipp was never none:
+  Nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr,
+    Before in England was but one."
+  King Henryes grace with royall cheere
+    Welcomed the noble Howard home,
+  And where, said he, is this rover stout,
+   That I myselfe may give the doome?
+
+  "The rover, he is safe, my liege,
+    Full many a fadom in the sea;
+  If he were alive as he is dead,
+    I must have left England many a day:
+  And your grace may thank four men i' the ship
+    For the victory wee have wonne,
+  These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt,
+    And Peter Simon, and his sonne."
+
+  To Henry Hunt, the king then sayd,
+    In lieu of what was from thee tane,
+  A noble a day now thou shalt have,
+    Sir Andrewes jewels and his chayne.
+  And Horseley thou shalt be a knight,
+    And lands and livings shalt have store;
+  Howard shall be erle Surrye hight,
+    As Howards erst have beene before.
+
+  Nowe, Peter Simon, thou art old,
+    I will maintaine thee and thy sonne:
+  And the men shall have five hundred markes
+    For the good service they have done.
+  Then in came the queene with ladyes fair
+    To see Sir Andrewe Barton knight:
+  They weend that hee were brought on shore,
+    And thought to have seen a gallant sight.
+
+  But when they see his deadlye face,
+    And eyes soe hollow in his head,
+  I wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes,
+    This man were alive as hee is dead:
+  Yett for the manfull part hee playd,
+    Which fought soe well with heart and hand,
+  His men shall have twelvepence a day,
+    Till they come to my brother kings high land.
+
+
+
+
+MAY COLLIN
+
+
+  May Collin ...
+    ... was her father's heir,
+  And she fell in love with a false priest,
+    And she rued it ever mair.
+
+  He followd her butt, he followd her benn,
+    He followd her through the hall,
+  Till she had neither tongue nor teeth
+    Nor lips to say him naw.
+
+  "We'll take the steed out where he is,
+    The gold where eer it be,
+  And we'll away to some unco land,
+    And married we shall be."
+
+  They had not riden a mile, a mile,
+    A mile but barely three,
+  Till they came to a rank river,
+    Was raging like the sea.
+
+  "Light off, light off now, May Collin,
+    It's here that you must die;
+  Here I have drownd seven king's daughters,
+    The eight now you must be.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your gown that's of the green;
+  For it's oer good and oer costly
+    To rot in the sea-stream.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your coat that's of the black;
+  For it's oer good and oer costly
+    To rot in the sea-wreck.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your stays that are well laced;
+  For thei'r oer good and costly
+    In the sea's ground to waste.
+
+  "Cast [off, cast off now, May Collin,]
+    Your sark that's of the holland;
+  For [it's oer good and oer costly]
+    To rot in the sea-bottom."
+
+  "Turn you about now, falsh Mess John,
+    To the green leaf of the tree;
+  It does not fit a mansworn man
+    A naked woman to see."
+
+  He turnd him quickly round about,
+    To the green leaf of the tree;
+  She took him hastly in her arms
+    And flung him in the sea.
+
+  "Now lye you there, you falsh Mess John,
+    My mallasin go with thee!
+  You thought to drown me naked and bare,
+    But take your cloaths with thee,
+  And if there be seven king's daughters there
+    Bear you them company"
+
+  She lap on her milk steed
+    And fast she bent the way,
+  And she was at her father's yate
+    Three long hours or day.
+
+  Up and speaks the wylie parrot,
+    So wylily and slee:
+  "Where is the man now, May Collin,
+    That gaed away wie thee?"
+
+  "Hold your tongue, my wylie parrot,
+    And tell no tales of me,
+  And where I gave a pickle befor
+    It's now I'll give you three."
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+
+
+PART THE FIRST
+
+
+  Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight,
+  He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright;
+  And many a gallant brave suiter had shee,
+  For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee.
+
+  And though shee was of favour most faire,
+  Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre,
+  Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee,
+  Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee.
+
+  Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say,
+  Good father, and mother, let me goe away
+  To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee.
+  This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee.
+
+  Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright,
+  All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night
+  From father and mother alone parted shee;
+  Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee.
+
+  Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow;
+  Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe:
+  With teares shee lamented her hard destinie,
+  So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Shee kept on her journey untill it was day,
+  And went unto Rumford along the hye way;
+  Where at the Queenes armes entertained was shee;
+  Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Shee had not beene there a month to an end,
+  But master and mistress and all was her friend:
+  And every brave gallant, that once did her see,
+  Was straight-way enamoured of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold,
+  And in their songs daylye her love was extold;
+  Her beawtye was blazed in every degree;
+  Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee.
+
+  The young men of Rumford in her had their joy;
+  Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye;
+  And at her commandment still wold they bee;
+  Soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Foure suitors att once unto her did goe;
+  They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe;
+  I wold not wish gentles to marry with mee.
+  Yett ever they honored prettye Bessee.
+
+  The first of them was a gallant young knight,
+  And he came unto her disguisde in the night;
+  The second a gentleman of good degree,
+  Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee.
+
+  A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small,
+  He was the third suiter, and proper withall:
+  Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee,
+  Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee.
+
+  And, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight,
+  Ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight;
+  My hart's so inthralled by thy bewtle,
+  That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee.
+
+  The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with mee,
+  As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee:
+  My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee;
+  And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee.
+
+  Let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say,
+  Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay;
+  My shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee,
+  And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.
+
+  Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus she did say,
+  My father and mother I meane to obey;
+  First gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee,
+  And you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee.
+
+  To every one this answer shee made,
+  Wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd,
+  This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree;  But where dwells thy father,
+my prettye Besse?
+
+  My father, shee said, is soone to be seene:
+  The seely blind beggar of Bednall-greene,
+  That daylye sits begging for charitie,
+  He is the good father of pretty Bessee.
+
+  His markes and his tokens are knowen very well;
+  He alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell:
+  A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee,
+  Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee:
+  Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee:
+  I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree,
+  And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee!
+
+  Why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse,
+  I waighe not true love by the waight of my pursse,
+  And bewtye is bewtye in every degree;
+  Then welcome unto me, my prettye Bessee.
+
+  With thee to thy father forthwith I will goe.
+  Nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe;
+  A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee,
+  Then take thy adew of pretty Bessee.
+
+  But soone after this, by breake of the day,
+  The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away.
+  The younge men of Rumford, as thicke might bee,
+  Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee.
+
+  As swifte as the winde to ryde they were scene,
+  Untill they came neare unto Bednall-greene;
+  And as the knight lighted most courteouslie,
+  They all fought against him for pretty Bessee.
+
+  But rescew came speedilye over the plaine,
+  Or else the young knight for his love had been slaine.
+  This fray being ended, then straitway he see
+  His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee.
+
+  Then spake the blind beggar, Although I bee poore,
+  Yett rayle not against my child at my own doore:
+  Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle,
+  Yett will I dropp angells with you for my girle.
+
+  And then, if my gold may better her birthe,
+  And equall the gold that you lay on the earth,
+  Then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see
+  The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee.
+
+  But first you shall promise, and have it well knowne,
+  The gold that you drop shall all be your owne.
+  With that they replyed, Contented bee wee.
+  Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that an angell he cast on the ground,
+  And dropped in angels full three thousand pound;
+  And oftentime itt was proved most plaine,
+  For the gentlemens one the beggar droppt twayne:
+
+  Soe that the place, wherin they did sitt,
+  With gold it was covered every whitt.
+  The gentlemen then having dropt all their store,
+  Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more.
+
+  Thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright.
+  Then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight;
+  And heere, added hee, I will now throwe you downe
+  A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne.
+
+  The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene,
+  Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene:
+  And all those, that were her suitors before,
+  Their fleshe for very anger they tore.
+
+  Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight,
+  And then made a ladye in others despite:
+  A fairer ladye there never was seene,
+  Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall-greene.
+
+  But of their sumptuous marriage and feast,
+  What brave lords and knights thither were prest,
+  The SECOND FITT shall set forth to your sight
+  With marveilous pleasure, and wished delight.
+
+
+PART THE SECOND
+
+
+  Off a blind beggars daughter most bright,
+  That late was betrothed unto a younge knight;
+  All the discourse therof you did see;
+  But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Within a gorgeous palace most brave,
+  Adorned with all the cost they cold have,
+  This wedding was kept most sumptuouslie,
+  And all for the credit of pretty Bessee.
+
+  All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete
+  Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete;
+  Partridge, and plover, and venison most free,
+  Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.
+
+  This marriage through England was spread by report,
+  Soe that a great number therto did resort
+  Of nobles and gentles in every degree;
+  And all for the fame of prettye Bessee.
+
+  To church then went this gallant younge knight;
+  His bride followed after, an angell most bright,
+  With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was scene
+  As went with sweete Bessy of Bednall-greene.
+
+  This marryage being solempnized then,
+  With musicke performed by the skilfullest men,
+  The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde,
+  Each one admiring the beautiful bryde.
+
+  Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done,
+  To talke, and to reason a number begunn:
+  They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright,
+  And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.
+
+  Then spake the nobles, "Much marveil have wee,
+  This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see."
+  My lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base,
+  He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.
+
+  "The prayse of a woman in question to bringe
+  Before her own face, were a flattering thinge;
+  But wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they,
+  "Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye."
+
+  They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke,
+  But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke;
+  A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee,
+  And now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee.
+
+  He had a daintye lute under his arme,
+  He touched the strings, which made such a charme,
+  Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee,
+  Ile sing you a song of pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that his lute he twanged straightway,
+  And thereon begann most sweetlye to play;
+  And after that lessons were playd two or three,
+  He strayn'd out this song most delicatelie.
+
+  "A poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene,
+  Who for her fairenesse might well be a queene:
+  A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee,
+  And many one called her pretty Bessee.
+
+  "Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land,
+  But begged for a penny all day with his hand;
+  And yett to her marriage he gave thousands three,
+  And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.
+
+  "And if any one here her birth doe disdaine,
+  Her father is ready, with might and with maine,
+  To proove shee is come of noble degree:
+  Therfore never flout att prettye Bessee."
+
+  With that the lords and the companye round
+  With harty laughter were readye to swound;
+  Att last said the lords, Full well wee may see,
+  The bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee.
+
+  On this the bride all blushing did rise,
+  The pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes,
+  O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee,
+  That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee.
+
+  If this be thy father, the nobles did say,
+  Well may he be proud of this happy day;
+  Yett by his countenance well may wee see,
+  His birth and his fortune did never agree:
+
+  And therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray,
+  (and looke that the truth thou to us doe say)
+  Thy birth and thy parentage, whatt itt may bee;
+  For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee.
+
+  "Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one,
+  One song more to sing, and then I have done;
+  And if that itt may not winn good report,
+  Then doe not give me a GROAT for my sport.
+
+  "Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shal bee;
+  Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee,
+  Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase,
+  Now loste and forgotten are hee and his race.
+
+  "When the barons in armes did King Henrye oppose,
+  Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose;
+  A leader of courage undaunted was hee,
+  And oft-times he made their enemyes flee.
+
+  "At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine
+  The barons were routed, and Montford was slaine;
+  Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee,
+  Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee!
+
+  "Along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde,
+  His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his side,
+  Was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight!
+  A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight.
+
+  "Among the dead bodyes all lifeless he laye,
+  Till evening drewe on of the following daye,
+  When by a yong ladye discovered was hee;
+  And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee!
+
+  "A barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte
+  To search for her father, who fell in the fight,
+  And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he laye,
+  Was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye.
+
+  "In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine,
+  While he throughe the realme was beleeved to be slaine
+  At lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee,
+  And made him glad father of prettye Bessee.
+
+  "And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye,
+  We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye;
+  Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee:
+  All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee.
+
+  "And here have we lived in fortunes despite,
+  Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte:
+  Full forty winters thus have I beene
+  A silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene.
+
+  "And here, noble lordes, is ended the song
+  Of one, that once to your own ranke did belong:
+  And thus have you learned a secrette from mee,
+  That ne'er had been knowne, but for prettye Bessee."
+
+  Now when the faire companye everye one,
+  Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne,
+  They all were amazed, as well they might bee,
+  Both at the blinde beggar, and pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that the faire bride they all did embrace,
+  Saying, Sure thou art come of an honourable race,
+  Thy father likewise is of noble degree,
+  And thou art well worthy a lady to bee.
+
+  Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte,
+  A bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte,
+  In joy and felicitie long lived hee,
+  All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.
+
+
+[Illustration: Hand dropping gold coins]
+
+
+
+
+
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+
+
+  Thomas lay on the Huntlie bank,
+    A spying ferlies wi his eee,
+  And he did spy a lady gay,
+    Come riding down by the lang lee.
+
+  Her steed was o the dapple grey,
+    And at its mane there hung bells nine;
+  He thought he heard that lady say,
+    "They gowden bells sall a' be thine."
+
+  Her mantle was o velvet green,
+    And a' set round wi jewels fine;
+  Her hawk and hounds were at her side,
+    And her bugle-horn wi gowd did shine.
+
+  Thomas took aff baith cloak and cap,
+    For to salute this gay lady:
+  "O save ye, save ye, fair Queen o Heavn,
+    And ay weel met ye save and see!"
+
+  "I'm no the Queen o Heavn, Thomas;
+    I never carried my head sae hee;
+  For I am but a lady gay,
+    Come out to hunt in my follee.
+
+  "Now gin ye kiss my mouth, Thomas,
+    Ye mauna miss my fair bodee;
+  Then ye may een gang hame and tell
+    That ye've lain wi a gay ladee."
+
+  "O gin I loe a lady fair,
+    Nae ill tales o her wad I tell,
+  And it's wi thee I fain wad gae,
+    Tho it were een to heavn or hell."
+
+  "Then harp and carp, Thomas," she said,
+    "Then harp and carp alang wi me;
+  But it will be seven years and a day
+    Till ye win back to yere ain countrie."
+
+  The lady rade, True Thomas ran,
+    Until they cam to a water wan;
+  O it was night, and nae delight,
+    And Thomas wade aboon the knee.
+
+  It was dark night, and nae starn-light,
+    And on they waded lang days three,
+  And they heard the roaring o a flood,
+    And Thomas a waefou man was he.
+
+  Then they rade on, and farther on,
+    Untill they came to a garden green;
+  To pu an apple he put up his hand,
+    For the lack o food he was like to tyne.
+
+  "O haud yere hand, Thomas," she cried,
+    "And let that green flourishing be;
+  For it's the very fruit o hell,
+    Beguiles baith man and woman o yere countrie.
+
+  "But look afore ye, True Thomas,
+    And I shall show ye ferlies three;
+  Yon is the gate leads to our land,
+    Where thou and I sae soon shall be.
+
+  "And dinna ye see yon road, Thomas,
+    That lies out-owr yon lilly lee?
+  Weel is the man yon gate may gang,
+    For it leads him straight to the heavens hie.
+
+  "But do you see yon road, Thomas,
+    That lies out-owr yon frosty fell?
+  Ill is the man yon gate may gang,
+    For it leads him straight to the pit o hell.
+
+  "Now when ye come to our court, Thomas,
+    See that a weel-learned man ye be;
+  For they will ask ye, one and all,
+    But ye maun answer nane but me.
+
+  "And when nae answer they obtain,
+    Then will they come and question me,
+  And I will answer them again
+    That I gat yere aith at the Eildon tree.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  "Ilka seven years, Thomas,
+    We pay our teindings unto hell,
+  And ye're sae leesome and sae strang
+    That I fear, Thomas, it will be yeresell."
+
+
+
+
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+
+
+  In London city was Bicham born,
+    He longd strange countries for to see,
+  But he was taen by a savage Moor,
+    Who handld him right cruely.
+
+  For thro his shoulder he put a bore,
+    An thro the bore has pitten a tree,
+  An he's gard him draw the carts o wine,
+    Where horse and oxen had wont to be.
+
+  He's casten [him] in a dungeon deep,
+    Where he coud neither hear nor see;
+  He's shut him up in a prison strong,
+    An he's handld him right cruely.
+
+  O this Moor he had but ae daughter,
+    I wot her name was Shusy Pye;
+  She's doen her to the prison-house,
+    And she's calld Young Bicham one word
+
+  "O hae ye ony lands or rents,
+    Or citys in your ain country,
+  Coud free you out of prison strong,
+    An coud mantain a lady free?"
+
+  "O London city is my own,
+    An other citys twa or three,
+  Coud loose me out o prison strong,
+    An coud mantain a lady free."
+
+  O she has bribed her father's men
+    Wi meikle goud and white money,
+  She's gotten the key o the prison doors,
+    An she has set Young Bicham free.
+
+  She's g'in him a loaf o good white bread,
+    But an a flask o Spanish wine,
+  An she bad him mind on the ladie's love
+    That sae kindly freed him out o pine.
+
+  "Go set your foot on good ship-board,
+    An haste you back to your ain country,
+  An before that seven years has an end,
+    Come back again, love, and marry me."
+
+  It was long or seven years had an end
+    She longd fu sair her love to see;
+  She's set her foot on good ship-board,
+    And turnd her back on her ain country.
+
+  She's saild up, so has she doun,
+    Till she came to the other side;
+  She's landed at Young Bicham's gates,
+    An I hop this day she sal be his bride.
+
+  "Is this Young Bicham's gates?" says she,
+    "Or is that noble prince within?"
+  "He's up the stairs wi his bonny bride,
+    An monny a lord and lady wi him."
+
+  "O has he taen a bonny bride,
+    An has he clean forgotten me!"
+  An sighing said that gay lady,
+    I wish I were in my ain country!
+
+  But she's pitten her han in her pocket,
+    An gin the porter guineas three;
+  Says, Take ye that, ye proud porter,
+    An bid the bridegroom speak to me.
+
+  O whan the porter came up the stair,
+    He's fa'n low down upon his knee:
+  "Won up, won up, ye proud porter,
+    An what makes a' this courtesy?"
+
+  "O I've been porter at your gates
+    This mair nor seven years an three,
+  But there is a lady at them now
+    The like of whom I never did see.
+
+  "For on every finger she has a ring,
+    An on the mid-finger she has three,
+  An there's a meikle goud aboon her brow
+    As woud buy an earldome o lan to me."
+
+  Then up it started Young Bicham,
+    An sware so loud by Our Lady,
+  "It can be nane but Shusy Pye,
+    That has come oer the sea to me."
+
+  O quickly ran he down the stair,
+    O fifteen steps he has made but three;
+  He's tane his bonny love in his arms,
+    An a wot he kissd her tenderly.
+
+  "O hae you tane a bonny bride?
+    An hae you quite forsaken me?
+  An hae ye quite forgotten her
+    That gae you life an liberty? "
+  She's lookit oer her left shoulder
+    To hide the tears stood in her ee;
+  "Now fare thee well, Young Bicham," she says,
+    "I'll strive to think nae mair on thee."
+
+  "Take back your daughter, madam," he says,
+    "An a double dowry I'll gi her wi;
+  For I maun marry my first true love,
+    That's done and suffered so much for me."
+
+  He's take his bonny love by the ban,
+    And led her to yon fountain stane;
+  He's changd her name frae Shusy Pye,
+    An he's cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+
+
+  The fifteenth day of July,
+    With glistering spear and shield,
+  A famous fight in Flanders
+    Was foughten in the field:
+  The most couragious officers
+    Were English captains three;
+  But the bravest man in battel
+    Was brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  The next was Captain Norris,
+    A valiant man was hee:
+  The other Captain Turner,
+    From field would never flee.
+  With fifteen hundred fighting men,
+    Alas! there were no more,
+  They fought with fourteen thousand then,
+    Upon the bloody shore.
+
+  Stand to it, noble pikemen,
+    And look you round about:
+  And shoot you right, you bow-men,
+    And we will keep them out:
+  You musquet and calliver men,
+    Do you prove true to me,
+  I'le be the formost man in fight,
+    Says brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  And then the bloody enemy
+    They fiercely did assail,
+  And fought it out most furiously,
+    Not doubting to prevail:
+  The wounded men on both sides fell
+    Most pitious for to see,
+  Yet nothing could the courage quell
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  For seven hours to all mens view
+    This fight endured sore,
+  Until our men so feeble grew
+    That they could fight no more;
+  And then upon dead horses
+    Full savourly they eat,
+  And drank the puddle water,
+    They could no better get.
+
+  When they had fed so freely,
+    They kneeled on the ground,
+  And praised God devoutly
+    For the favour they had found;
+  And beating up their colours,
+    The fight they did renew,
+  And turning tow'rds the Spaniard,
+    A thousand more they slew.
+
+  The sharp steel-pointed arrows,
+    And bullets thick did fly,
+  Then did our valiant soldiers
+    Charge on most furiously;
+  Which made the Spaniards waver,
+    They thought it best to flee,
+  They fear'd the stout behaviour
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  Then quoth the Spanish general,
+    Come let us march away,
+  I fear we shall be spoiled all
+    If here we longer stay;
+  For yonder comes Lord Willoughbey
+    With courage fierce and fell,
+  He will not give one inch of way
+    For all the devils in hell.
+
+  And then the fearful enemy
+    Was quickly put to flight,
+  Our men persued couragiously,
+    And caught their forces quite;
+  But at last they gave a shout,
+    Which ecchoed through the sky,
+  God, and St. George for England!
+    The conquerors did cry.
+
+  This news was brought to England
+    With all the speed might be,
+  And soon our gracious queen was told
+    Of this same victory.
+  O this is brave Lord Willoughbey,
+    My love that ever won,
+  Of all the lords of honour
+    'Tis he great deeds hath done.
+
+  To the souldiers that were maimed,
+    And wounded in the fray,
+  The queen allowed a pension
+    Of fifteen pence a day;
+  And from all costs and charges
+    She quit and set them free:
+  And this she did all for the sake
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  Then courage, noble Englishmen,
+    And never be dismaid;
+  If that we be but one to ten,
+    We will not be afraid
+  To fight with foraign enemies,
+    And set our nation free.
+  And thus I end the bloody bout
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+
+
+  Will you hear a Spanish lady,
+    How shed wooed an English man?
+  Garments gay and rich as may be
+    Decked with jewels she had on.
+  Of a comely countenance and grace was she,
+  And by birth and parentage of high degree.
+
+  As his prisoner there he kept her,
+    In his hands her life did lye!
+  Cupid's bands did tye them faster
+    By the liking of an eye.
+  In his courteous company was all her joy,
+  To favour him in any thing she was not coy.
+
+  But at last there came commandment
+    For to set the ladies free,
+  With their jewels still adorned,
+    None to do them injury.
+  Then said this lady mild, Full woe is me;
+  O let me still sustain this kind captivity!
+
+  Gallant captain, shew some pity
+    To a ladye in distresse;
+  Leave me not within this city,
+    For to dye in heavinesse:
+  Thou hast this present day my body free,
+  But my heart in prison still remains with thee.
+
+  "How should'st thou, fair lady, love me,
+    Whom thou knowest thy country's foe?
+  Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee:
+    Serpents lie where flowers grow."
+  All the harme I wishe to thee, most courteous knight,
+  God grant the same upon my head may fully light.
+  Blessed be the time and season,
+    That you came on Spanish ground;
+  If our foes you may be termed,
+    Gentle foes we have you found:
+  With our city, you have won our hearts eche one,
+  Then to your country bear away, that is your owne.
+
+  "Rest you still, most gallant lady;
+    Rest you still, and weep no more;
+  Of fair lovers there is plenty,
+    Spain doth yield a wonderous store."
+  Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find,
+  But Englishmen through all the world are counted kind.
+
+  Leave me not unto a Spaniard,
+    You alone enjoy my heart:
+  I am lovely, young, and tender,
+    Love is likewise my desert:
+  Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest;
+  The wife of every Englishman is counted blest.
+  "It wold be a shame, fair lady,
+    For to bear a woman hence;
+  English soldiers never carry
+    Any such without offence."
+  I'll quickly change myself, if it be so,
+  And like a page He follow thee, where'er thou go.
+
+  "I have neither gold nor silver
+    To maintain thee in this case,
+  And to travel is great charges,
+    As you know in every place."
+  My chains and jewels every one shal be thy own,
+  And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.
+
+  "On the seas are many dangers,
+    Many storms do there arise,
+  Which wil be to ladies dreadful,
+    And force tears from watery eyes."
+  Well in troth I shall endure extremity,
+  For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.
+
+  "Courteous ladye, leave this fancy,
+    Here comes all that breeds the strife;
+  I in England have already
+    A sweet woman to my wife:
+  I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain,
+  Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain."
+
+  O how happy is that woman
+    That enjoys so true a friend!
+  Many happy days God send her;
+    Of my suit I make an end:
+  On my knees I pardon crave for my offence,
+  Which did from love and true affection first commence.
+
+  Commend me to thy lovely lady,
+    Bear to her this chain of gold;
+  And these bracelets for a token;
+    Grieving that I was so bold:
+  All my jewels in like sort take thou with thee,
+  For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.
+
+  I will spend my days in prayer,
+    Love and all her laws defye;
+  In a nunnery will I shroud mee
+    Far from any companye:
+  But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this,
+  To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.
+
+  Thus farewell, most gallant captain!
+    Farewell too my heart's content!
+  Count not Spanish ladies wanton,
+    Though to thee my love was bent:
+  Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee!
+   "The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladie."
+
+
+
+
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  It was a friar of orders gray
+   Walkt forth to tell his beades;
+  And he met with a lady faire,
+    Clad in a pilgrime's weedes.
+
+  Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,
+    I pray thee tell to me,
+  If ever at yon holy shrine
+    My true love thou didst see.
+
+  And how should I know your true love
+    From many another one?
+  O by his cockle hat, and staff,
+    And by his sandal shoone.
+
+  But chiefly by his face and mien,
+    That were so fair to view;
+  His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,
+    And eyne of lovely blue.
+
+  O lady, he is dead and gone!
+    Lady, he's dead and gone!
+  And at his head a green grass turfe,
+    And at his heels a stone.
+
+  Within these holy cloysters long
+    He languisht, and he dyed,
+  Lamenting of a ladyes love,
+    And 'playning of her pride.
+
+  Here bore him barefac'd on his bier
+    Six proper youths and tall,
+  And many a tear bedew'd his grave
+    Within yon kirk-yard wall.
+
+  And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!
+    And art thou dead and gone!
+  And didst thou die for love of me!
+    Break, cruel heart of stone!
+
+  O weep not, lady, weep not soe;
+    Some ghostly comfort seek:
+  Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
+    Ne teares bedew thy cheek.
+
+  O do not, do not, holy friar,
+    My sorrow now reprove;
+  For I have lost the sweetest youth,
+    That e'er wan ladyes love.
+
+  And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse,
+    I'll evermore weep and sigh;
+  For thee I only wisht to live,
+    For thee I wish to dye.
+
+  Weep no more, lady, weep no more,
+    Thy sorrowe is in vaine:
+  For violets pluckt the sweetest showers
+    Will ne'er make grow againe.
+
+  Our joys as winged dreams doe flye,
+    Why then should sorrow last?
+  Since grief but aggravates thy losse,
+    Grieve not for what is past.
+
+  O say not soe, thou holy friar;
+    I pray thee, say not soe:
+  For since my true-love dyed for mee,
+    'Tis meet my tears should flow.
+
+  And will he ne'er come again?
+    Will he ne'er come again?
+  Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,
+    For ever to remain.
+
+  His cheek was redder than the rose;
+    The comliest youth was he!
+  But he is dead and laid in his grave:
+    Alas, and woe is me!
+
+  Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,
+    Men were deceivers ever:
+  One foot on sea and one on land,
+    To one thing constant never.
+
+  Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,
+    And left thee sad and heavy;
+  For young men ever were fickle found,
+    Since summer trees were leafy.
+
+  Now say not so, thou holy friar,
+    I pray thee say not soe;
+  My love he had the truest heart:
+    O he was ever true!
+
+  And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth,
+    And didst thou dye for mee?
+  Then farewell home; for ever-more
+    A pilgrim I will bee.
+
+  But first upon my true-loves grave
+    My weary limbs I'll lay,
+  And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,
+    That wraps his breathless clay.
+
+  Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile
+    Beneath this cloyster wall:
+  See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,
+    And drizzly rain doth fall.
+
+  O stay me not, thou holy friar;
+    O stay me not, I pray;
+  No drizzly rain that falls on me,
+    Can wash my fault away.
+
+  Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
+    And dry those pearly tears;
+  For see beneath this gown of gray
+    Thy own true-love appears.
+
+  Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love,
+    These holy weeds I sought;
+  And here amid these lonely walls
+    To end my days I thought.
+
+  But haply for my year of grace
+    Is not yet past away,
+  Might I still hope to win thy love,
+    No longer would I stay.
+
+  Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
+    Once more unto my heart;
+  For since I have found thee, lovely youth,
+    We never more will part.
+
+
+
+
+CLERK COLVILL
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Clerk Colvill and his lusty dame
+    Were walking in the garden green;
+  The belt around her stately waist
+    Cost Clerk Colvill of pounds fifteen.
+
+  "O promise me now, Clerk Colvill,
+    Or it will cost ye muckle strife,
+  Ride never by the wells of Slane,
+    If ye wad live and brook your life."
+
+  "Now speak nae mair, my lusty dame,
+    Now speak nae mair of that to me;
+  Did I neer see a fair woman,
+    But I wad sin with her body?"
+
+  He's taen leave o his gay lady,
+    Nought minding what his lady said,
+  And he's rode by the wells of Slane,
+    Where washing was a bonny maid.
+
+  "Wash on, wash on, my bonny maid,
+    That wash sae clean your sark of silk;"
+  "And weel fa you, fair gentleman,
+    Your body whiter than the milk."
+
+      *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Then loud, loud cry'd the Clerk Colvill,
+    "O my head it pains me sair;"
+  "Then take, then take," the maiden said,
+    "And frae my sark you'll cut a gare."
+
+  Then she's gied him a little bane-knife,
+    And frae her sark he cut a share;
+  She's ty'd it round his whey-white face,
+    But ay his head it aked mair.
+
+  Then louder cry'd the Clerk Colville,
+    "O sairer, sairer akes my head;"
+  "And sairer, sairer ever will,"
+    The maiden crys, "till you be dead."
+
+  Out then he drew his shining blade,
+    Thinking to stick her where she stood,
+  But she was vanished to a fish,
+    And swam far off, a fair mermaid.
+
+  "O mother, mother, braid my hair;
+    My lusty lady, make my bed;
+  O brother, take my sword and spear,
+    For I have seen the false mermaid."
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+SIR ALDINGAR
+
+
+  Our king he kept a false stewarde,
+    Sir Aldingar they him call;
+  A falser steward than he was one,
+    Servde not in bower nor hall.
+
+  He wolde have layne by our comelye queene,
+    Her deere worshippe to betraye:
+  Our queene she was a good woman,
+    And evermore said him naye.
+
+  Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind,
+    With her hee was never content,
+  Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse,
+    In a fyer to have her brent.
+
+  There came a lazar to the kings gate,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame:
+  He tooke the lazar upon his backe,
+    Him on the queenes bed has layne.
+
+  "Lye still, lazar, whereas thou lyest,
+    Looke thou goe not hence away;
+  He make thee a whole man and a sound
+    In two howers of the day."
+
+  Then went him forth Sir Aldingar,
+    And hyed him to our king:
+  "If I might have grace, as I have space,
+    Sad tydings I could bring."
+
+  Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar,
+    Saye on the soothe to mee.
+  "Our queene hath chosen a new new love,
+    And shee will have none of thee.
+
+  "If shee had chosen a right good knight,
+    The lesse had beene her shame;
+  But she hath chose her a lazar man,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame."
+
+  If this be true, thou Aldingar,
+    The tyding thou tellest to me,
+  Then will I make thee a rich rich knight,
+    Rich both of golde and fee.
+
+  But if it be false, Sir Aldingar,
+    As God nowe grant it bee!
+  Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood,
+    Shall hang on the gallows tree.
+
+  He brought our king to the queenes chamber,
+    And opend to him the dore.
+  A lodlye love, King Harry says,
+    For our queene dame Elinore!
+
+  If thou were a man, as thou art none,
+    Here on my sword thoust dye;
+  But a payre of new gallowes shall be built,
+    And there shalt thou hang on hye.
+
+  Forth then hyed our king, I wysse,
+    And an angry man was hee;
+  And soone he found Queen Elinore,
+    That bride so bright of blee.
+
+  Now God you save, our queene, madame,
+    And Christ you save and see;
+  Heere you have chosen a newe newe love,
+    And you will have none of mee.
+
+  If you had chosen a right good knight,
+    The lesse had been your shame;
+  But you have chose you a lazar man,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame.
+
+  Therfore a fyer there shalt be built,
+    And brent all shalt thou bee.--
+  Now out alacke! said our comly queene,
+    Sir Aldingar's false to mee.
+
+  Now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene,
+    My heart with griefe will brast.
+  I had thought swevens had never been true;
+    I have proved them true at last.
+
+  I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve,
+    In my bed whereas I laye.
+  I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast
+    Had carryed my crowne awaye;
+
+  My gorgett and my kirtle of golde,
+    And all my faire head-geere:
+  And he wold worrye me with his tush
+    And to his nest y-beare:
+
+  Saving there came a little 'gray' hawke,
+    A merlin him they call,
+  Which untill the grounde did strike the grype,
+    That dead he downe did fall.
+
+  Giffe I were a man, as now I am none,
+    A battell wold I prove,
+  To fight with that traitor Aldingar,
+    Att him I cast my glove.
+
+  But seeing Ime able noe battell to make,
+    My liege, grant me a knight
+  To fight with that traitor Sir Aldingar,
+    To maintaine me in my right.
+
+  "Now forty dayes I will give thee
+    To seeke thee a knight therein:
+  If thou find not a knight in forty dayes
+    Thy bodye it must brenn."
+
+  Then shee sent east, and shee sent west,
+    By north and south bedeene:
+  But never a champion colde she find,
+    Wolde fight with that knight soe keene.
+
+  Now twenty dayes were spent and gone,
+    Noe helpe there might be had;
+  Many a teare shed our comelye queene
+    And aye her hart was sad.
+
+  Then came one of the queenes damselles,
+    And knelt upon her knee,
+  "Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame,
+    I trust yet helpe may be:
+
+  And here I will make mine avowe,
+    And with the same me binde;
+  That never will I return to thee,
+    Till I some helpe may finde."
+
+  Then forth she rode on a faire palfraye
+    Oer hill and dale about:
+  But never a champion colde she finde,
+    Wolde fighte with that knight so stout.
+
+  And nowe the daye drewe on a pace,
+    When our good queene must dye;
+  All woe-begone was that faire damselle,
+    When she found no helpe was nye.
+
+  All woe-begone was that faire damselle,
+    And the salt teares fell from her eye:
+  When lo! as she rode by a rivers side,
+    She met with a tinye boye.
+
+  A tinye boye she mette, God wot,
+    All clad in mantle of golde;
+  He seemed noe more in mans likenesse,
+    Then a childe of four yeere old.
+
+  Why grieve you, damselle faire, he sayd,
+    And what doth cause you moane?
+  The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke,
+    But fast she pricked on.
+
+  Yet turne againe, thou faire damselle
+    And greete thy queene from mee:
+  When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest,
+    Nowe helpe enoughe may bee.
+
+  Bid her remember what she dreamt
+    In her bedd, wheras shee laye;
+  How when the grype and grimly beast
+    Wolde have carried her crowne awaye,
+
+  Even then there came the little gray hawke,
+    And saved her from his clawes:
+  Then bidd the queene be merry at hart,
+    For heaven will fende her cause.
+
+  Back then rode that faire damselle,
+    And her hart it lept for glee:
+  And when she told her gracious dame
+    A gladd woman then was shee:
+
+  But when the appointed day was come,
+    No helpe appeared nye:
+  Then woeful, woeful was her hart,
+    And the teares stood in her eye.
+
+  And nowe a fyer was built of wood;
+    And a stake was made of tree;
+  And now Queene Elinor forth was led,
+    A sorrowful sight to see.
+
+  Three times the herault he waved his hand,
+    And three times spake on hye:
+  Giff any good knight will fende this dame,
+    Come forth, or shee must dye.
+
+  No knight stood forth, no knight there came,
+    No helpe appeared nye:
+  And now the fyer was lighted up,
+    Queen Elinor she must dye.
+
+  And now the fyer was lighted up,
+    As hot as hot might bee;
+  When riding upon a little white steed,
+    The tinye boy they see.
+
+  "Away with that stake, away with those brands,
+    And loose our comelye queene:
+  I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar,
+    And prove him a traitor keene."
+
+  Forthe then stood Sir Aldingar,
+    But when he saw the chylde,
+  He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe,
+    And weened he had been beguylde.
+
+  "Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar,
+    And eyther fighte or flee;
+  I trust that I shall avenge the wronge,
+    Thoughe I am so small to see."
+
+  The boy pulld forth a well good sworde
+    So gilt it dazzled the ee;
+  The first stroke stricken at Aldingar,
+    Smote off his leggs by the knee.
+
+  "Stand up, stand up, thou false traitor,
+    And fight upon thy feete,
+  For and thou thrive, as thou begin'st,
+    Of height wee shall be meete."
+
+  A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingar,
+    While I am a man alive.
+  A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingar,
+    Me for to houzle and shrive.
+
+  I wolde have laine by our comlie queene,
+    Bot shee wolde never consent;
+  Then I thought to betraye her unto our kinge
+    In a fyer to have her brent.
+
+  There came a lazar to the kings gates,
+    A lazar both blind and lame:
+  I tooke the lazar upon my backe,
+    And on her bedd had him layne.
+
+  Then ranne I to our comlye king,
+    These tidings sore to tell.
+  But ever alacke! sayes Aldingar,
+    Falsing never doth well.
+
+  Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame,
+    The short time I must live.
+  "Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar,
+    As freely I forgive."
+
+  Here take thy queene, our king Harrye,
+    And love her as thy life,
+  For never had a king in Christentye.
+    A truer and fairer wife.
+
+  King Henrye ran to claspe his queene,
+    And loosed her full sone:
+  Then turned to look for the tinye boye;
+    --The boye was vanisht and gone.
+
+  But first he had touched the lazar man,
+    And stroakt him with his hand:
+  The lazar under the gallowes tree
+    All whole and sounde did stand.
+
+  The lazar under the gallowes tree
+    Was comelye, straight and tall;
+  King Henrye made him his head stewarde
+    To wayte withinn his hall.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+EDOM O' GORDON
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  It fell about the Martinmas,
+    Quhen the wind blew shril and cauld,
+  Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,
+    We maun draw till a hauld.
+
+  And quhat a hauld sall we draw till,
+    My mirry men and me?
+  We wul gae to the house o' the Rodes,
+    To see that fair ladie.
+
+  The lady stude on her castle wa',
+    Beheld baith dale and down:
+  There she was ware of a host of men
+    Cum ryding towards the toun.
+
+  O see ze nat, my mirry men a'?
+    O see za nat quhat I see?
+  Methinks I see a host of men:
+    I marveil quha they be.
+
+  She weend it had been hir luvely lord,
+    As he cam ryding hame;
+  It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon,
+    Quha reckt nae sin nor shame.
+
+  She had nae sooner buskit hirsel,
+    And putten on hir goun,
+  But Edom o' Gordon and his men
+    Were round about the toun.
+
+  They had nae sooner supper sett,
+    Nae sooner said the grace,
+  But Edom o' Gordon and his men
+    Were light about the place.
+
+  The lady ran up to hir towir head,
+    Sa fast as she could hie,
+  To see if by hir fair speeches
+    She could wi' him agree.
+
+  But quhan he see this lady saif,
+    And hir yates all locked fast,
+  He fell into a rage of wrath,
+    And his look was all aghast.
+
+  Cum doun to me, ze lady gay,
+    Cum doun, cum doun to me:
+  This night sall ye lig within mine armes,
+    To-morrow my bride sall be.
+
+  I winnae cum doun ze fals Gordon,
+    I winnae cum doun to thee;
+  I winna forsake my ain dear lord,
+    That is sae far frae me.
+
+  Give owre zour house, ze lady fair,
+    Give owre zour house to me,
+  Or I sall brenn yoursel therein,
+    Bot and zour babies three.
+
+  I winnae give owre, ze false Gordon,
+    To nae sik traitor as zee;
+  And if ze brenn my ain dear babes,
+    My lord sall make ze drie.
+
+  But reach my pistoll, Glaud my man,
+    And charge ze weil my gun:
+  For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher,
+    My babes we been undone.
+
+  She stude upon hir castle wa',
+    And let twa bullets flee:
+  She mist that bluidy butchers hart,
+    And only raz'd his knee.
+
+  Set fire to the house, quo' fals Gordon,
+    All wood wi' dule and ire:
+  Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid,
+    As ze bren in the fire.
+
+  Wae worth, wae worth ze, Jock my man,
+    I paid ze weil zour fee;
+  Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane,
+    Lets in the reek to me?
+
+  And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man,
+    I paid ze weil zour hire;
+  Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane,
+    To me lets in the fire?
+
+  Ze paid me weil my hire, lady;
+    Ze paid me weil my fee:
+  But now I'm Edom o' Gordons man,
+    Maun either doe or die.
+
+  O than bespaik hir little son,
+    Sate on the nurses knee:
+  Sayes, Mither deare, gi' owre this house,
+    For the reek it smithers me.
+
+  I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe,
+    Say wald I a' my fee,
+  For ane blast o' the western wind,
+    To blaw the reek frae thee.
+
+  O then bespaik hir dochter dear,
+    She was baith jimp and sma;
+  O row me in a pair o' sheits,
+    And tow me owre the wa.
+
+  They rowd hir in a pair o' sheits,
+    And towd hir owre the wa:
+  But on the point of Gordons spear
+    She gat a deadly fa.
+
+  O bonnie bonnie was hir mouth,
+    And cherry were her cheiks,
+  And clear clear was hir zellow hair,
+    Whereon the reid bluid dreips.
+
+  Then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre,
+    O gin hir face was wan!
+  He sayd, Ze are the first that eir
+    I wisht alive again.
+
+  He turnd hir owre and owre againe,
+    O gin hir skin was whyte!
+  I might ha spared that bonnie face
+    To hae been sum mans delyte.
+
+  Busk and boun, my merry men a',
+    For ill dooms I doe guess;
+  I cannae luik in that bonnie face,
+    As it lyes on the grass.
+
+  Thame, luiks to freits, my master deir,
+    Then freits wil follow thame:
+  Let neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon
+    Was daunted by a dame.
+
+  But quhen the ladye see the fire
+    Cum flaming owre hir head,
+  She wept and kist her children twain,
+    Sayd, Bairns, we been but dead.
+
+  The Gordon then his bougill blew,
+    And said, Awa', awa';
+  This house o' the Rodes is a' in flame,
+    I hauld it time to ga'.
+
+  O then bespyed hir ain dear lord,
+    As hee cam owr the lee;
+  He sied his castle all in blaze     Sa far as he could see.
+
+  Then sair, O sair his mind misgave,
+    And all his hart was wae;
+  Put on, put on, my wighty men,
+    So fast as ze can gae.
+
+  Put on, put on, my wighty men,
+    Sa fast as ze can drie;
+  For he that is hindmost of the thrang
+    Sall neir get guid o' me.
+
+  Than sum they rade, and sum they rin,
+    Fou fast out-owr the bent;
+  But eir the foremost could get up,
+    Baith lady and babes were brent.
+
+  He wrang his hands, he rent his hair,
+    And wept in teenefu' muid:
+  O traitors, for this cruel deid
+    Ze sall weep tiers o' bluid.
+
+  And after the Gordon he is gane,
+    Sa fast as he might drie.
+  And soon i' the Gordon's foul hartis bluid
+    He's wroken his dear ladie.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+CHEVY CHASE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  God prosper long our noble king,
+    Our lives and safetyes all;
+  A woefull hunting once there did
+    In Chevy-Chace befall;
+
+  To drive the deere with hound and horne,
+    Erle Percy took his way,
+  The child may rue that is unborne,
+    The hunting of that day.
+
+  The stout Erle of Northumberland
+    A vow to God did make,
+  His pleasure in the Scottish woods
+    Three summers days to take;
+
+  The cheefest harts in Chevy-chace
+    To kill and beare away.
+  These tydings to Erle Douglas came,
+    In Scotland where he lay:
+
+  Who sent Erle Percy present word,
+    He wold prevent his sport.
+  The English erle, not fearing that,
+    Did to the woods resort
+
+  With fifteen hundred bow-men bold;
+    All chosen men of might,
+  Who knew full well in time of neede
+    To ayme their shafts arright.
+
+  The galland greyhounds swiftly ran,
+    To chase the fallow deere:
+  On munday they began to hunt,
+    Ere day-light did appeare;
+
+  And long before high noone they had
+    An hundred fat buckes slaine;
+  Then having dined, the drovyers went
+    To rouze the deare againe.
+
+  The bow-men mustered on the hills,
+    Well able to endure;
+  Theire backsides all, with speciall care,
+    That day were guarded sure.
+
+  The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,
+    The nimble deere to take,
+  That with their cryes the hills and dales
+    An eccho shrill did make.
+
+  Lord Percy to the quarry went,
+    To view the slaughter'd deere;
+  Quoth he, Erle Douglas promised
+    This day to meet me heere:
+
+  But if I thought he wold not come,
+    Noe longer wold I stay.
+  With that, a brave younge gentleman
+    Thus to the Erle did say:
+
+  Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,
+    His men in armour bright;
+  Full twenty hundred Scottish speres
+    All marching in our sight;
+
+  All men of pleasant Tivydale,
+    Fast by the river Tweede:
+  O cease your sports, Erle Percy said,
+    And take your bowes with speede:
+
+  And now with me, my countrymen,
+    Your courage forth advance;
+  For there was never champion yett,
+    In Scotland nor in France,
+
+  That ever did on horsebacke come,
+    But if my hap it were,
+  I durst encounter man for man,
+    With him to break a spere.
+
+  Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede,
+    Most like a baron bolde,
+  Rode foremost of his company,
+    Whose armour shone like gold.
+
+  Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee,
+    That hunt soe boldly heere,
+  That, without my consent, doe chase
+    And kill my fallow-deere.
+
+  The first man that did answer make
+    Was noble Percy hee;
+  Who sayd, Wee list not to declare,
+    Nor shew whose men wee bee:
+  Yet wee will spend our deerest blood,
+    Thy cheefest harts to slay.
+  Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe,
+    And thus in rage did say,
+
+  Ere thus I will out-braved bee,
+    One of us two shall dye:
+  I know thee well, an erle thou art;
+    Lord Percy, soe am I.
+
+  But trust me, Percy, pittye it were,
+    And great offence to kill
+  Any of these our guiltlesse men,
+    For they have done no ill.
+
+  Let thou and I the battell trye,
+    And set our men aside.
+  Accurst bee he, Erle Percy sayd,
+    By whome this is denyed.
+
+  Then stept a gallant squier forth,
+    Witherington was his name,
+  Who said, I wold not have it told
+    To Henry our king for shame,
+
+  That ere my captaine fought on foote,
+    And I stood looking on.
+  You be two erles, sayd Witherington,
+    And I a squier alone:
+
+  He doe the best that doe I may,
+    While I have power to stand:
+  While I have power to weeld my sword
+    He fight with hart and hand.
+
+  Our English archers bent their bowes,
+    Their harts were good and trew;
+  Att the first flight of arrowes sent,
+    Full four-score Scots they slew.
+
+  Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent,
+    As Chieftain stout and good.
+  As valiant Captain, all unmov'd
+    The shock he firmly stood.
+
+  His host he parted had in three,
+    As Leader ware and try'd,
+  And soon his spearmen on their foes
+    Bare down on every side.
+
+  To drive the deere with hound and horne,
+    Douglas bade on the bent
+  Two captaines moved with mickle might
+    Their speres to shivers went.
+
+  Throughout the English archery
+    They dealt full many a wound:
+  But still our valiant Englishmen
+    All firmly kept their ground:
+
+  And throwing strait their bows away,
+    They grasp'd their swords so bright:
+  And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,
+    On shields and helmets light.
+
+  They closed full fast on every side,
+    Noe slackness there was found:
+  And many a gallant gentleman
+    Lay gasping on the ground.
+
+  O Christ! it was a griefe to see;
+    And likewise for to heare,
+  The cries of men lying in their gore,
+    And scattered here and there.
+
+  At last these two stout erles did meet,
+    Like captaines of great might:
+  Like lyons wood, they layd on lode,
+    And made a cruell fight:
+
+  They fought untill they both did sweat,
+    With swords of tempered steele;
+  Untill the blood, like drops of rain,
+    They tricklin downe did feele.
+
+  Yeeld thee, Lord Percy, Douglas sayd
+    In faith I will thee bringe,
+  Where thou shalt high advanced bee
+    By James our Scottish king:
+
+  Thy ransome I will freely give,
+    And this report of thee,
+  Thou art the most couragious knight,
+    That ever I did see.
+
+  Noe, Douglas, quoth Erle Percy then,
+    Thy proffer I doe scorne;
+  I will not yeelde to any Scott,
+    That ever yett was borne.
+
+  With that, there came an arrow keene
+    Out of an English bow,
+  Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart,
+    A deepe and deadlye blow:
+
+  Who never spake more words than these,
+    Fight on, my merry men all;
+  For why, my life is at an end;
+    Lord Percy sees my fall.
+
+  Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke
+    The dead man by the hand;
+  And said, Erle Douglas, for thy life
+    Wold I had lost my land.
+
+  O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed
+    With sorrow for thy sake;
+  For sure, a more redoubted knight
+    Mischance cold never take.
+
+  A knight amongst the Scotts there was
+    Which saw Erle Douglas dye,
+  Who streight in wrath did vow revenge
+    Upon the Lord Percye:
+
+  Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd,
+    Who, with a spere most bright,
+  Well-mounted on a gallant steed,
+    Ran fiercely through the fight;
+
+  And past the English archers all,
+    Without all dread or feare;
+  And through Earl Percyes body then
+    He thrust his hatefull spere;
+
+  With such a vehement force and might
+    He did his body gore,
+  The staff ran through the other side
+    A large cloth-yard and more.
+
+  So thus did both these nobles dye,
+    Whose courage none could staine:
+  An English archer then perceiv'd
+    The noble erle was slaine;
+
+  He had a bow bent in his hand,
+    Made of a trusty tree;
+  An arrow of a cloth-yard long
+    Up to the head drew hee:
+
+  Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye,
+    So right the shaft he sett,
+  The grey goose-winge that was thereon,
+    In his harts bloode was wette.
+
+  This fight did last from breake of day,
+    Till setting of the sun;
+  For when they rang the evening-bell,
+    The battel scarce was done.
+
+  With stout Erle Percy there was slaine
+    Sir John of Egerton,
+  Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,
+    Sir James that bold barron:
+
+  And with Sir George and stout Sir James,
+    Both knights of good account,
+  Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine,
+    Whose prowesse did surmount.
+
+  For Witherington needs must I wayle,
+    As one in doleful dumpes;
+  For when his leggs were smitten off,
+    He fought upon his stumpes.
+
+  And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine
+    Sir Hugh Montgomerye,
+  Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld
+    One foote wold never flee.
+
+  Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too,
+    His sisters sonne was hee;
+  Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd,
+    Yet saved cold not bee.
+
+  And the Lord Maxwell in like case
+    Did with Erle Douglas dye:
+  Of twenty hundred Scottish speres,
+    Scarce fifty-five did flye.
+
+  Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
+    Went home but fifty-three;
+  The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace,
+    Under the greene woode tree.
+
+  Next day did many widowes come,
+    Their husbands to bewayle;
+  They washt their wounds in brinish teares,
+    But all wold not prevayle.
+
+  Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore,
+    They bare with them away:
+  They kist them dead a thousand times,
+    Ere they were cladd in clay.
+
+  The news was brought to Eddenborrow,
+    Where Scottlands king did raigne,
+  That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye
+    Was with an arrow slaine:
+
+  O heavy newes, King James did say,
+    Scotland may witnesse bee,
+  I have not any captaine more
+    Of such account as hee.
+
+  Like tydings to King Henry came,
+    Within as short a space,
+  That Percy of Northumberland
+    Was slaine in Chevy-Chace:
+
+  Now God be with him, said our king,
+    Sith it will noe better bee;
+  I trust I have, within my realme,
+    Five hundred as good as hee:
+
+  Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say,
+    But I will vengeance take:
+  I'll be revenged on them all,
+    For brave Erle Percyes sake.
+
+  This vow full well the king perform'd
+    After, at Humbledowne;
+  In one day, fifty knights were slayne,
+    With lords of great renowne:
+
+  And of the rest, of small acount,
+    Did many thousands dye:
+  Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase,
+    Made by the Erle Percy.
+
+  God save our king, and bless this land
+    With plenty, joy, and peace;
+  And grant henceforth, that foule debate
+    'Twixt noblemen may cease.
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+
+
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+  When Arthur first in court began,
+    And was approved king,
+   By force of armes great victorys wanne,
+  And conquest home did bring,
+
+  Then into England straight he came
+    With fifty good and able
+  Knights, that resorted unto him,
+    And were of his round table:
+
+  And he had justs and turnaments,
+    Whereto were many prest,
+  Wherein some knights did far excell
+    And eke surmount the rest.
+
+  But one Sir Lancelot du Lake,
+    Who was approved well,
+  He for his deeds and feats of armes
+    All others did excell.
+
+  When he had rested him a while,
+    In play, and game, and sportt,
+  He said he wold goe prove himselfe
+    In some adventurous sort.
+
+  He armed rode in a forrest wide,
+    And met a damsell faire,
+  Who told him of adventures great,
+    Whereto he gave great eare.
+
+  Such wold I find, quoth Lancelott:
+    For that cause came I hither.
+  Thou seemest, quoth shee, a knight full good,
+    And I will bring thee thither.
+
+  Wheras a mighty knight doth dwell,
+    That now is of great fame:
+  Therefore tell me what wight thou art,
+    And what may be thy name.
+
+  "My name is Lancelot du Lake."
+    Quoth she, it likes me than:
+  Here dwelles a knight who never was
+    Yet matcht with any man:
+
+  Who has in prison threescore knights
+    And four, that he did wound;
+  Knights of King Arthurs court they be,
+    And of his table round.
+
+  She brought him to a river side,
+    And also to a tree,
+  Whereon a copper bason hung,
+    And many shields to see.
+
+  He struck soe hard, the bason broke;
+    And Tarquin soon he spyed:
+  Who drove a horse before him fast,
+    Whereon a knight lay tyed.
+
+  Sir knight, then sayd Sir Lancelett,
+    Bring me that horse-load hither,
+  And lay him downe, and let him rest;
+    Weel try our force together:
+
+  For, as I understand, thou hast,
+    So far as thou art able,
+  Done great despite and shame unto
+    The knights of the Round Table.
+
+  If thou be of the Table Round,
+    Quoth Tarquin speedilye,
+  Both thee and all thy fellowship
+    I utterly defye.
+
+  That's over much, quoth Lancelott tho,
+    Defend thee by and by.
+  They sett their speares unto their steeds,
+    And eache att other flie.
+
+  They coucht theire speares (their horses ran,
+    As though there had beene thunder),
+  And strucke them each immidst their shields,
+    Wherewith they broke in sunder.
+
+  Their horsses backes brake under them,
+    The knights were both astound:
+  To avoyd their horsses they made haste
+    And light upon the ground.
+
+  They tooke them to their shields full fast,
+    Their swords they drewe out than,
+  With mighty strokes most eagerlye
+    Each at the other ran.
+
+  They wounded were, and bled full sore,
+    They both for breath did stand,
+  And leaning on their swords awhile,
+    Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand,
+
+  And tell to me what I shall aske.
+    Say on, quoth Lancelot tho.
+  Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight
+    That ever I did know:
+
+  And like a knight, that I did hate:
+    Soe that thou be not hee,
+  I will deliver all the rest,
+    And eke accord with thee.
+
+  That is well said, quoth Lancelott;
+    But sith it must be soe,
+  What knight is that thou hatest thus
+    I pray thee to me show.
+
+  His name is Lancelot du Lake,
+    He slew my brother deere;
+  Him I suspect of all the rest:
+    I would I had him here.
+
+  Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne,
+    I am Lancelot du Lake,
+  Now knight of Arthurs Table Round;
+    King Hauds son of Schuwake;
+
+  And I desire thee to do thy worst.
+    Ho, ho, quoth Tarquin tho'
+  One of us two shall ende our lives
+    Before that we do go.
+
+  If thou be Lancelot du Lake,
+    Then welcome shalt thou bee:
+  Wherfore see thou thyself defend,
+    For now defye I thee.
+
+  They buckled them together so,
+    Like unto wild boares rashing;
+  And with their swords and shields they ran
+    At one another slashing:
+
+  The ground besprinkled was with blood:
+    Tarquin began to yield;
+  For he gave backe for wearinesse,
+    And lowe did beare his shield.
+
+  This soone Sir Lancelot espyde,
+    He leapt upon him then,
+  He pull'd him downe upon his knee,
+    And rushing off his helm,
+
+  Forthwith he strucke his necke in two,
+    And, when he had soe done,
+  From prison threescore knights and four
+    Delivered everye one.
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+GIL MORRICE
+
+
+  Gil Morrice was an erles son,
+     His name it waxed wide;
+    It was nae for his great riches,
+  Nor zet his mickle pride;
+  Bot it was for a lady gay,
+    That livd on Carron side.
+
+  Quhair sail I get a bonny boy,
+    That will win hose and shoen;
+  That will gae to Lord Barnards ha',
+    And bid his lady cum?
+  And ze maun rin my errand, Willie;
+    And ze may rin wi' pride;
+  Quhen other boys gae on their foot
+    On horse-back ze sail ride.
+
+  O no! Oh no! my master dear!
+    I dare nae for my life;
+  I'll no gae to the bauld barons,
+    For to triest furth his wife.
+  My bird Willie, my boy Willie;
+    My dear Willie, he sayd:
+  How can ze strive against the stream?
+    For I sall be obeyd.
+
+  Bot, O my master dear! he cryd,
+    In grene wod ze're zour lain;
+  Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede,
+    For fear ze should be tain.
+  Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',
+    Bid hir cum here wi speid:
+  If ze refuse my heigh command,
+    Ill gar zour body bleid.
+
+  Gae bid hir take this gay mantel,
+    'Tis a' gowd hot the hem;
+  Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,
+    And bring nane bot hir lain:
+  And there it is a silken sarke,
+    Hir ain hand sewd the sleive;
+  And bid hir cum to Gill Morice,
+    Speir nae bauld barons leave.
+
+  Yes, I will gae zour black errand,
+    Though it be to zour cost;
+  Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd,
+    In it ze sail find frost.
+  The baron he is a man of might,
+    He neir could bide to taunt,
+  As ze will see before its nicht,
+    How sma' ze hae to vaunt.
+
+  And sen I maun zour errand rin
+    Sae sair against my will,
+  I'se mak a vow and keip it trow,
+    It sall be done for ill.
+  And quhen he came to broken brigue,
+    He bent his bow and swam;
+  And quhen he came to grass growing,
+    Set down his feet and ran.
+
+  And quhen he came to Barnards ha',
+    Would neither chap nor ca':
+  Bot set his bent bow to his breist,
+    And lichtly lap the wa'.
+  He wauld nae tell the man his errand,
+    Though he stude at the gait;
+  Bot straiht into the ha' he cam,
+    Quhair they were set at meit.
+
+  Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame!
+    My message winna waite;
+  Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod
+    Before that it be late.
+  Ze're bidden tak this gay mantel,
+    Tis a' gowd bot the hem:
+  Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode,
+    Ev'n by your sel alane.
+
+  And there it is, a silken sarke,
+    Your ain hand sewd the sleive;
+  Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice:
+    Speir nae bauld barons leave.
+  The lady stamped wi' hir foot,
+    And winked wi' hir ee;
+  Bot a' that she coud say or do,
+    Forbidden he wad nae bee.
+
+  Its surely to my bow'r-woman;
+    It neir could be to me.
+  I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
+    I trow that ze be she.
+  Then up and spack the wylie nurse,
+    (The bairn upon hir knee)
+  If it be cum frae Gill Morice,
+    It's deir welcum to mee.
+
+  Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse,
+    Sae loud I heird zee lee;
+  I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
+    I trow ze be nae shee.
+  Then up and spack the bauld baron,
+    An angry man was hee;
+  He's tain the table wi' his foot,
+    Sae has he wi' his knee;
+  Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish
+    In flinders he gard flee.
+
+  Gae bring a robe of zour cliding,
+    That hings upon the pin;
+  And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,
+    And speik wi' zour lemman.
+  O bide at hame, now Lord Barnard,
+    I warde ze bide at hame;
+  Neir wyte a man for violence,
+    That neir wate ze wi' nane.
+
+  Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode,
+    He whistled and he sang:
+  O what mean a' the folk coming,
+    My mother tarries lang.
+  His hair was like the threeds of gold,
+    Drawne frae Minerva's loome:
+  His lipps like roses drapping dew,
+    His breath was a' perfume.
+
+  His brow was like the mountain snae
+    Gilt by the morning beam:
+  His cheeks like living roses glow:
+    His een like azure stream.  The boy was clad in robes of grene,
+    Sweete as the infant spring:
+  And like the mavis on the bush,
+    He gart the vallies ring.
+
+  The baron came to the grene wode,
+    Wi' mickle dule and care,
+  And there he first spied Gill Morice
+    Kameing his zellow hair:
+  That sweetly wavd around his face,
+    That face beyond compare:
+  He sang sae sweet it might dispel
+    A' rage but fell despair.
+
+  Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice,
+    My lady loed thee weel,
+  The fairest part of my bodie
+    Is blacker than thy heel.
+  Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice,
+    For a' thy great beautie,
+  Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;
+    That head sall gae wi' me.
+
+  Now he has drawn his trusty brand,
+    And slaited on the strae;
+  And thro' Gill Morice' fair body
+    He's gar cauld iron gae.
+  And he has tain Gill Morice's head
+    And set it on a speir;
+  The meanest man in a' his train
+    Has gotten that head to bear.
+
+  And he has tain Gill Morice up,
+    Laid him across his steid,
+  And brocht him to his painted bowr,
+    And laid him on a bed.
+  The lady sat on castil wa',
+    Beheld baith dale and doun;
+  And there she saw Gill Morice' head
+    Cum trailing to the toun.
+
+  Far better I loe that bluidy head,
+    Both and that zellow hair,
+  Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands,
+    As they lig here and thair.
+  And she has tain her Gill Morice,
+    And kissd baith mouth and chin:
+  I was once as fow of Gill Morice,
+    As the hip is o' the stean.
+
+  I got ze in my father's house,
+    Wi' mickle sin and shame;
+  I brocht thee up in gude grene wode,
+    Under the heavy rain.
+  Oft have I by thy cradle sitten,
+    And fondly seen thee sleip;
+  But now I gae about thy grave,
+    The saut tears for to weip.
+
+  And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,
+    And syne his bluidy chin:
+  O better I loe my Gill Morice
+    Than a' my kith and kin!
+  Away, away, ze ill woman,
+    And an il deith mait ze dee:
+  Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son,
+    He'd neir bin slain for mee.
+
+  Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard!
+    Obraid me not for shame!
+  Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart!
+    And put me out o' pain.
+  Since nothing bot Gill Morice head
+    Thy jelous rage could quell,
+  Let that saim hand now tak hir life,
+    That neir to thee did ill.
+
+  To me nae after days nor nichts
+    Will eir be saft or kind;
+  I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,
+    And greet till I am blind.
+  Enouch of blood by me's been spilt,
+    Seek not zour death frae mee;
+  I rather lourd it had been my sel
+    Than eather him or thee.
+
+  With waefo wae I hear zour plaint;
+    Sair, sair I rew the deid,
+  That eir this cursed hand of mine
+    Had gard his body bleid.
+  Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame,
+    Ze neir can heal the wound;
+  Ze see his head upon the speir,
+    His heart's blude on the ground.
+
+  I curse the hand that did the deid,
+    The heart that thocht the ill;
+  The feet that bore me wi' sik speid,
+    The comely zouth to kill.
+  I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,
+    As gin he were mine ain;
+  I'll neir forget the dreiry day
+    On which the zouth was slain.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+The CHILD of ELLE
+
+
+  On yondre hill a castle standes
+    With walles and towres bedight,
+   And yonder lives the Child of Elle,
+  A younge and comely knighte.
+
+  The Child of Elle to his garden went,
+    And stood at his garden pale,
+  Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page
+    Come trippinge downe the dale.
+
+  The Child of Elle he hyed him thence,
+    Y-wis he stoode not stille,
+  And soone he mette faire Emmelines page
+    Come climbinge up the hille.
+
+  Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page,
+    Now Christe thee save and see!
+  Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye,
+    And what may thy tydinges bee?
+
+  My ladye shee is all woe-begone,
+    And the teares they falle from her eyne;
+  And aye she laments the deadlye feude
+    Betweene her house and thine.
+
+  And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe
+    Bedewde with many a teare,
+  And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her,
+    Who loved thee so deare.
+
+  And here shee sends thee a ring of golde
+    The last boone thou mayst have,
+  And biddes thee weare it for her sake,
+    Whan she is layde in grave.
+
+  For, ah! her gentle heart is broke,
+    And in grave soone must shee bee,
+  Sith her father hath chose her a new new love,
+    And forbidde her to think of thee.
+
+  Her father hath brought her a carlish knight,
+    Sir John of the north countraye,
+  And within three dayes she must him wedde,
+    Or he vowes he will her slaye.
+
+  Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
+    And greet thy ladye from mee,
+  And telle her that I her owne true love
+    Will dye, or sette her free.
+
+  Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
+    And let thy fair ladye know
+  This night will I bee at her bowre-windowe,
+    Betide me weale or woe.
+
+  The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne,
+    He neither stint ne stayd
+  Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre,
+    Whan kneeling downe he sayd,
+
+  O ladye, I've been with thine own true love,
+    And he greets thee well by mee;
+  This night will hee bee at thy bowre-windowe,
+    And dye or sett thee free.
+
+  Nowe daye was gone, and night was come,
+    And all were fast asleepe,
+  All save the Ladye Emmeline,
+    Who sate in her bowre to weepe:
+
+  And soone shee heard her true loves voice
+    Lowe whispering at the walle,
+  Awake, awake, my deare ladye,
+    Tis I thy true love call.
+
+  Awake, awake, my ladye deare,
+    Come, mount this faire palfraye:
+  This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe
+    He carrye thee hence awaye.
+
+  Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight,
+    Nowe nay, this may not bee;
+  For aye shold I tint my maiden fame,
+    If alone I should wend with thee.
+
+  O ladye, thou with a knighte so true
+    Mayst safelye wend alone,
+  To my ladye mother I will thee bringe,
+    Where marriage shall make us one.
+
+  "My father he is a baron bolde,
+    Of lynage proude and hye;
+  And what would he saye if his daughter
+    Awaye with a knight should fly
+
+  "Ah! well I wot, he never would rest,
+    Nor his meate should doe him no goode,
+  Until he hath slayne thee, Child of Elle,
+    And scene thy deare hearts bloode."
+
+  O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,
+    And a little space him fro,
+  I would not care for thy cruel father,
+    Nor the worst that he could doe.
+
+  O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,
+    And once without this walle,
+  I would not care for thy cruel father
+    Nor the worst that might befalle.
+
+  Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept,
+    And aye her heart was woe:
+  At length he seized her lilly-white hand,
+    And downe the ladder he drewe:
+
+  And thrice he clasped her to his breste,
+    And kist her tenderlie:
+  The teares that fell from her fair eyes
+    Ranne like the fountayne free.
+
+  Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle,
+    And her on a fair palfraye,
+  And slung his bugle about his necke,
+    And roundlye they rode awaye.
+
+  All this beheard her owne damselle,
+    In her bed whereas shee ley,
+  Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this,
+    Soe I shall have golde and fee.
+
+  Awake, awake, thou baron bolde!
+    Awake, my noble dame!
+  Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle
+    To doe the deede of shame.
+
+  The baron he woke, the baron he rose,
+    And called his merrye men all:
+  "And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte,
+    Thy ladye is carried to thrall."
+
+  Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile,
+    A mile forth of the towne,
+  When she was aware of her fathers men
+    Come galloping over the downe:
+
+  And foremost came the carlish knight,
+    Sir John of the north countraye:
+  "Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitoure,
+    Nor carry that ladye awaye.
+
+  "For she is come of hye lineage,
+    And was of a ladye borne,
+  And ill it beseems thee, a false churl's sonne,
+    To carrye her hence to scorne."
+
+  Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight,
+    Nowe thou doest lye of mee;
+  A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore,
+    Soe never did none by thee
+
+  But light nowe downe, my ladye faire,
+    Light downe, and hold my steed,
+  While I and this discourteous knighte
+    Doe trye this arduous deede.
+
+  But light now downe, my deare ladye,
+    Light downe, and hold my horse;
+  While I and this discourteous knight
+    Doe trye our valour's force.
+
+  Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept,
+    And aye her heart was woe,
+  While twixt her love and the carlish knight
+    Past many a baleful blowe.
+
+  The Child of Elle hee fought so well,
+    As his weapon he waved amaine,
+  That soone he had slaine the carlish knight,
+    And layd him upon the plaine.
+
+  And nowe the baron and all his men
+    Full fast approached nye:
+  Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe
+    Twere nowe no boote to flye.
+
+  Her lover he put his horne to his mouth,
+    And blew both loud and shrill,
+  And soone he saw his owne merry men
+    Come ryding over the hill.
+
+  "Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron,
+    I pray thee hold thy hand,
+  Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts
+    Fast knit in true love's band.
+
+  Thy daughter I have dearly loved
+    Full long and many a day;
+  But with such love as holy kirke
+    Hath freelye sayd wee may.
+
+  O give consent, shee may be mine,
+    And blesse a faithfull paire:
+  My lands and livings are not small,
+    My house and lineage faire:
+
+  My mother she was an earl's daughter,
+    And a noble knyght my sire--
+  The baron he frowned, and turn'd away
+    With mickle dole and ire.
+
+  Fair Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept,
+    And did all tremblinge stand:
+  At lengthe she sprang upon her knee,
+    And held his lifted hand.
+
+  Pardon, my lorde and father deare,
+    This faire yong knyght and mee:
+  Trust me, but for the carlish knyght,
+    I never had fled from thee.
+
+  Oft have you called your Emmeline
+    Your darling and your joye;
+  O let not then your harsh resolves
+    Your Emmeline destroye.
+
+  The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke,
+    And turned his heade asyde
+  To whipe awaye the starting teare
+    He proudly strave to hyde.
+
+  In deepe revolving thought he stoode,
+    And mused a little space;
+  Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounde,
+    With many a fond embrace.
+
+  Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd,
+    And gave her lillye white hand;
+  Here take my deare and only child,
+    And with her half my land:
+
+  Thy father once mine honour wrongde
+    In dayes of youthful pride;
+  Do thou the injurye repayre
+    In fondnesse for thy bride.
+
+  And as thou love her, and hold her deare,
+    Heaven prosper thee and thine:
+  And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee,
+    My lovelye Emmeline.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+
+CHILD WATERS
+
+
+  Childe Waters in his stable stoode
+    And stroakt his milke white steede:
+  To him a fayre yonge ladye came
+    As ever ware womans weede.
+
+  Sayes, Christ you save, good Childe Waters;
+    Sayes, Christ you save, and see:
+  My girdle of gold that was too longe,
+    Is now too short for mee.
+
+  And all is with one chyld of yours,
+    I feel sturre att my side:
+  My gowne of greene it is too straighte;
+    Before, it was too wide.
+
+  If the child be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd,
+    Be mine, as you tell mee;
+  Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    Take them your owne to bee.
+
+  If the childe be mine, fair Ellen, he sayd,
+    Be mine, as you doe sweare;
+  Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    And make that child your heyre.
+
+  Shee saies, I had rather have one kisse,
+    Child Waters, of thy mouth;
+  Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    That laye by north and south.
+
+  And I had rather have one twinkling,
+    Childe Waters, of thine ee;
+  Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    To take them mine owne to bee.
+
+  To morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde
+    Farr into the north countrie;
+  The fairest lady that I can find,
+    Ellen, must goe with mee.
+
+  'Thoughe I am not that lady fayre,
+    'Yet let me go with thee:'
+  And ever I pray you, Child Waters,
+    Your foot-page let me bee.
+
+  If you will my foot-page be, Ellen,
+    As you doe tell to mee;
+  Then you must cut your gowne of greene,
+    An inch above your knee:
+
+  Soe must you doe your yellow lockes,
+    An inch above your ee:
+  You must tell no man what is my name;
+    My foot-page then you shall bee.
+
+  Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode,
+    Ran barefoote by his side;
+  Yett was he never soe courteous a knighte,
+    To say, Ellen, will you ryde?
+
+  Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode,
+    Ran barefoote thorow the broome;
+  Yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte,
+    To say, put on your shoone.
+
+  Ride softlye, shee sayd, O Childe Waters,
+    Why doe you ryde soe fast?
+  The childe, which is no mans but thine,
+    My bodye itt will brast.
+
+  Hee sayth, seeth thou yonder water, Ellen,
+    That flows from bank to brimme?--
+  I trust to God, O Child Waters,
+    You never will see mee swimme.
+
+  But when shee came to the waters side,
+    Shee sayled to the chinne:
+  Except the Lord of heaven be my speed,
+    Now must I learne to swimme.
+
+  The salt waters bare up her clothes;
+    Our Ladye bare upp her chinne:
+  Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord,
+    To see faire Ellen swimme.
+
+  And when shee over the water was,
+    Shee then came to his knee:
+  He said, Come hither, thou fair Ellen,
+    Loe yonder what I see.
+
+  Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?
+    Of redd gold shines the yate;
+  Of twenty foure faire ladyes there,
+    The fairest is my mate.
+
+  Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?
+    Of redd gold shines the towre:
+  There are twenty four fair ladyes there,
+    The fairest is my paramoure.
+
+  I see the hall now, Child Waters,
+    Of redd golde shines the yate:
+  God give you good now of yourselfe,
+    And of your worthye mate.
+
+  I see the hall now, Child Waters,
+    Of redd gold shines the towre:
+  God give you good now of yourselfe,
+    And of your paramoure.
+
+  There twenty four fayre ladyes were
+    A playing att the ball:
+  And Ellen the fairest ladye there,
+    Must bring his steed to the stall.
+
+  There twenty four fayre ladyes were
+    A playinge at the chesse;
+  And Ellen the fayrest ladye there,
+    Must bring his horse to gresse.
+
+  And then bespake Childe Waters sister,
+    These were the wordes said shee:
+  You have the prettyest foot-page, brother,
+    That ever I saw with mine ee.
+
+  But that his bellye it is soe bigg,
+    His girdle goes wonderous hie:
+  And let him, I pray you, Childe Wateres,
+    Goe into the chamber with mee.
+
+  It is not fit for a little foot-page,
+    That has run throughe mosse and myre,
+  To go into the chamber with any ladye,
+    That weares soe riche attyre.
+
+  It is more meete for a litle foot-page,
+    That has run throughe mosse and myre,
+  To take his supper upon his knee,
+    And sitt downe by the kitchen fyer.
+
+  But when they had supped every one,
+    To bedd they tooke theyr waye:
+  He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page,
+    And hearken what I saye.
+
+  Goe thee downe into yonder towne,
+    And low into the street;
+  The fayrest ladye that thou can finde,
+
+    Hyer her in mine armes to sleepe,
+  And take her up in thine armes twaine,
+    For filinge of her feete.
+
+  Ellen is gone into the towne,
+    And low into the streete:
+  The fairest ladye that she cold find,
+    Shee hyred in his armes to sleepe;
+  And tooke her up in her armes twayne,
+    For filing of her feete.
+
+  I pray you nowe, good Child Waters,
+    Let mee lye at your bedds feete:
+  For there is noe place about this house,
+    Where I may 'saye a sleepe.
+
+  'He gave her leave, and faire Ellen
+    'Down at his beds feet laye:'
+  This done the nighte drove on apace,
+    And when it was neare the daye,
+
+  Hee sayd, Rise up, my litle foot-page,
+    Give my steede corne and haye;
+  And soe doe thou the good black oats,
+    To carry mee better awaye.
+
+  Up then rose the faire Ellen,
+    And gave his steede corne and hay:
+  And soe shee did the good blacke oats,
+    To carry him the better away.
+
+  Shee leaned her backe to the manger side,
+    And grievouslye did groane:
+  Shee leaned her backe to the manger side,
+    And there shee made her moane.
+
+  And that beheard his mother deere,
+    Shee heard her there monand.
+  Shee sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Waters,
+    I think thee a cursed man.
+
+  For in thy stable is a ghost,
+    That grievouslye doth grone:
+  Or else some woman laboures of childe,
+    She is soe woe-begone.
+
+  Up then rose Childe Waters soon,
+    And did on his shirte of silke;
+  And then he put on his other clothes,
+    On his body as white as milke.
+
+  And when he came to the stable dore,
+    Full still there he did stand,
+  That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellen
+    Howe shee made her monand.
+
+  Shee sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deere child,
+    Lullabye, dere child, dere;
+  I wold thy father were a king,
+    Thy mother layd on a biere.
+
+  Peace now, he said, good faire Ellen,
+    Be of good cheere, I praye;
+  And the bridal and the churching both
+    Shall bee upon one day.
+
+
+
+
+[Image]
+
+KING EDWARD IV & THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH
+
+
+  In summer time, when leaves grow greene,
+     And blossoms bedecke the tree,
+  King Edward wolde a hunting ryde,
+    Some pastime for to see.
+
+  With hawke and hounde he made him bowne,
+    With horne, and eke with bowe;
+  To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye,
+    With all his lordes a rowe.
+
+  And he had ridden ore dale and downe
+    By eight of clocke in the day,
+  When he was ware of a bold tanner,
+    Come ryding along the waye.
+
+  A fayre russet coat the tanner had on
+    Fast buttoned under his chin,
+  And under him a good cow-hide,
+    And a marc of four shilling.
+
+  Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all,
+    Under the grene wood spraye;
+  And I will wend to yonder fellowe,
+    To weet what he will saye.
+
+  God speede, God speede thee, said our king.
+    Thou art welcome, Sir, sayd hee.
+  "The readyest waye to Drayton Basset
+    I praye thee to shew to mee."
+
+  "To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe,
+    Fro the place where thou dost stand?
+  The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto,
+    Turne in upon thy right hand."
+
+  That is an unreadye waye, sayd our king,
+    Thou doest but jest, I see;
+  Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye,
+    And I pray thee wend with mee.
+
+  Away with a vengeance! quoth the tanner:
+    I hold thee out of thy witt:
+  All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare,
+    And I am fasting yett.
+
+  "Go with me downe to Drayton Basset,
+    No daynties we will spare;
+  All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best,
+    And I will paye thy fare."
+
+  Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde,
+    Thou payest no fare of mine:
+  I trowe I've more nobles in my purse,
+    Than thou hast pence in thine.
+
+  God give thee joy of them, sayd the king,
+    And send them well to priefe.
+  The tanner wolde faine have beene away,
+    For he weende he had beene a thiefe.
+
+  What art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellowe,
+    Of thee I am in great feare,
+  For the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back,
+    Might beseeme a lord to weare.
+
+  I never stole them, quoth our king,
+    I tell you, Sir, by the roode.
+  "Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth,
+    And standest in midds of thy goode."
+
+  What tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge,
+    As you ryde farre and neare?
+  "I heare no tydinges, Sir, by the masse,
+    But that cowe-hides are deare."
+
+  "Cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those?
+     I marvell what they bee?"
+  What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd;
+    I carry one under mee.
+
+  What craftsman art thou, said the king,
+    I pray thee tell me trowe.
+  "I am a barker, Sir, by my trade;
+    Nowe tell me what art thou?"
+
+  I am a poor courtier, Sir, quoth he,
+    That am forth of service worne;
+  And faine I wolde thy prentise bee,
+    Thy cunninge for to learne.
+
+  Marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde,
+    That thou my prentise were:
+  Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne
+    By fortye shilling a yere.
+
+  Yet one thinge wolde I, sayd our king,
+    If thou wilt not seeme strange:
+  Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare,
+    Yet with thee I fain wold change.
+
+  "Why if with me thou faine wilt change,
+    As change full well maye wee,
+  By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe
+    I will have some boot of thee."
+
+  That were against reason, sayd the king,
+    I sweare, so mote I thee:
+  My horse is better than thy mare,
+    And that thou well mayst see.
+
+  "Yea, Sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild,
+    And softly she will fare:
+  Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss;
+    Aye skipping here and theare."
+
+  What boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd;
+    Now tell me in this stound.
+  "Noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye,
+    But a noble in gold so round.
+
+  "Here's twentye groates of white moneye,
+    Sith thou will have it of mee."
+  I would have sworne now, quoth the tanner,
+    Thou hadst not had one pennie.
+
+  But since we two have made a change,
+    A change we must abide,
+  Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare,
+    Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.
+
+  I will not have it, sayd the kynge,
+    I sweare, so mought I thee;
+  Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare,
+    If thou woldst give it to mee.
+
+  The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide,
+    That of the cow was bilt;
+  And threwe it upon the king's sadelle,
+    That was soe fayrelye gilte.
+  "Now help me up, thou fine fellowe,
+    'Tis time that I were gone:
+  When I come home to Gyllian my wife,
+    Sheel say I am a gentilmon."
+
+  The king he tooke him up by the legge;
+    The tanner a f----- lett fall.
+  Nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the king,
+    Thy courtesye is but small.
+
+  When the tanner he was in the kinges sadelle,
+    And his foote in the stirrup was;
+  He marvelled greatlye in his minde,
+    Whether it were golde or brass.
+
+  But when the steede saw the cows taile wagge,
+    And eke the blacke cowe-horne;
+  He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne,
+    As the devill had him borne.
+
+  The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat,
+    And held by the pummil fast:
+  At length the tanner came tumbling downe;
+    His necke he had well-nye brast.
+
+  Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd,
+    With mee he shall not byde.
+  "My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe,
+    But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide.
+
+  Yet if againe thou faine woldst change,
+    As change full well may wee,
+  By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tanner,
+    I will have some boote of thee."
+
+  What boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd,
+    Nowe tell me in this stounde.
+  "Noe pence nor halfpence, Sir, by my faye,
+    But I will have twentye pound."
+
+  "Here's twentye groates out of my purse;
+    And twentye I have of thine:
+  And I have one more, which we will spend
+    Together at the wine."
+
+  The king set a bugle home to his mouthe,
+    And blewe both loude and shrille:
+  And soone came lords, and soone came knights,
+    Fast ryding over the hille.
+
+  Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde,
+    That ever I sawe this daye!
+  Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes     Will beare my
+cowe-hide away.
+
+  They are no thieves, the king replyde,
+    I sweare, soe mote I thee:
+  But they are the lords of the north countrey,
+    Here come to hunt with mee.
+
+  And soone before our king they came,
+    And knelt downe on the grounde:
+  Then might the tanner have beene awaye,
+    He had lever than twentye pounde.
+
+  A coller, a coller, here: sayd the king,
+    A coller he loud gan crye:
+  Then woulde he lever than twentye pound,
+    He had not beene so nighe.
+
+  A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd,
+    I trowe it will breed sorrowe:
+  After a coller cometh a halter,
+    I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrowe.
+
+  Be not afraid, tanner, said our king;
+    I tell thee, so mought I thee,
+  Lo here I make thee the best esquire
+    That is in the North countrie.
+
+  For Plumpton-parke I will give thee,
+    With tenements faire beside:
+  'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,
+    To maintaine thy good cowe-hide.
+
+  Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde,
+    For the favour thou hast me showne;
+  If ever thou comest to merry Tamworth,
+    Neates leather shall clout thy shoen.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+
+
+  The king sits in Dumferling toune,
+    Drinking the blude-reid wine:
+  O quhar will I get guid sailor,
+    To sail this schip of mine.
+
+  Up and spak an eldern knicht,
+    Sat at the kings richt kne:
+  Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,
+    That sails upon the se.
+
+  The king has written a braid letter,
+    And signd it wi' his hand;
+  And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
+    Was walking on the sand.
+
+  The first line that Sir Patrick red,
+    A loud lauch lauched he:
+  The next line that Sir Patrick red,
+    The teir blinded his ee.
+
+  O quha is this has don this deid,
+    This ill deid don to me;
+  To send me out this time o' the zeir,
+    To sail upon the se.
+
+  Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,
+    Our guid schip sails the morne,
+  O say na sae, my master deir,
+    For I feir a deadlie storme.
+
+  Late late yestreen I saw the new moone
+    Wi' the auld moone in hir arme;
+  And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
+    That we will com to harme.
+
+  O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
+    To weet their cork-heild schoone;
+  Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
+    Thair hats they swam aboone.
+
+  O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit
+    Wi' thair fans into their hand,
+  Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens
+    Cum sailing to the land.
+
+  O lang, lang, may the ladies stand
+    Wi' thair gold kems in their hair,
+  Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
+    For they'll se thame na mair.
+
+  Have owre, have owre to Aberdour,
+    It's fiftie fadom deip:
+  And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens,
+    Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.
+
+
+
+
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+
+
+  It was intill a pleasant time,
+    Upon a simmer's day,
+  The noble Earl of Mar's daughter
+  Went forth to sport and play.
+
+  As thus she did amuse hersell,
+    Below a green aik tree,
+  There she saw a sprightly doo
+    Set on a tower sae hie.
+
+  "O cow-me-doo, my love sae true,
+    If ye'll come down to me,
+  Ye 'se hae a cage o guid red gowd
+    Instead o simple tree:
+
+  "I'll put growd hingers roun your cage,
+    And siller roun your wa;
+  I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird
+    As ony o them a'."
+
+  But she hadnae these words well spoke,
+    Nor yet these words well said,
+  Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower
+    And lighted on her head.
+
+  Then she has brought this pretty bird
+    Hame to her bowers and ba,
+  And made him shine as fair a bird
+    As ony o them a'.
+
+  When day was gane, and night was come,
+    About the evening tide,
+  This lady spied a sprightly youth
+    Stand straight up by her side.
+
+  "From whence came ye, young man?" she said;
+    "That does surprise me sair;
+  My door was bolted right secure,
+    What way hae ye come here?"
+
+  "O had your tongue, ye lady fair,
+    Lat a' your folly be;
+  Mind ye not on your turtle-doo
+    Last day ye brought wi thee?"
+
+  "O tell me mair, young man," she said,
+    "This does surprise me now;
+  What country hae ye come frae?
+    What pedigree are you?"
+
+  "My mither lives on foreign isles,
+    She has nae mair but me;
+  She is a queen o wealth and state,
+    And birth and high degree.
+
+  "Likewise well skilld in magic spells,
+    As ye may plainly see,
+  And she transformd me to yon shape,
+    To charm such maids as thee.
+
+  "I am a doo the live-lang day,
+    A sprightly youth at night;
+  This aye gars me appear mair fair
+    In a fair maiden's sight.
+
+  "And it was but this verra day
+    That I came ower the sea;
+  Your lovely face did me enchant;
+    I'll live and dee wi thee."
+
+  "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,
+    Nae mair frae me ye 'se gae;
+  That's never my intent, my luve,
+    As ye said, it shall be sae."
+
+  "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,
+    It's time to gae to bed;"
+  "Wi a' my heart, my dear marrow,
+    It's be as ye hae said."
+
+  Then he has staid in bower wi her
+    For sax lang years and ane,
+  Till sax young sons to him she bare,
+    And the seventh she's brought hame.
+
+  But aye as ever a child was born
+    He carried them away,
+  And brought them to his mither's care,
+    As fast as he coud fly.
+
+  Thus he has staid in bower wi her
+    For twenty years and three;
+  There came a lord o high renown
+    To court this fair ladie.
+
+  But still his proffer she refused,
+    And a' his presents too;
+  Says, I'm content to live alane
+    Wi my bird, Cow-me-doo.
+
+  Her father sware a solemn oath
+    Amang the nobles all,
+  "The morn, or ere I eat or drink,
+    This bird I will gar kill."
+
+  The bird was sitting in his cage,
+    And heard what they did say;
+  And when he found they were dismist,
+    Says, Wae's me for this day!
+
+  "Before that I do langer stay,
+    And thus to be forlorn,
+  I'll gang unto my mither's bower,
+    Where I was bred and born."
+
+  Then Cow-me-doo took flight and flew
+    Beyond the raging sea,
+  And lighted near his mither's castle,
+    On a tower o gowd sae hie.
+
+  As his mither was wauking out,
+    To see what she coud see,
+  And there she saw her little son,
+    Set on the tower sae hie.
+
+  "Get dancers here to dance," she said,
+    "And minstrells for to play;
+  For here's my young son, Florentine,
+    Come here wi me to stay."
+
+  "Get nae dancers to dance, mither,
+    Nor minstrells for to play,
+  For the mither o my seven sons,
+    The morn's her wedding-day."
+
+  "O tell me, tell me, Florentine,
+    Tell me, and tell me true,
+  Tell me this day without a flaw,
+    What I will do for you."
+
+  "Instead of dancers to dance, mither,
+    Or minstrells for to play,
+  Turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men
+    Like storks in feathers gray;
+
+  "My seven sons in seven swans,
+    Aboon their heads to flee;
+  And I mysell a gay gos-hawk,
+    A bird o high degree."
+
+  Then sichin said the queen hersell,
+    "That thing's too high for me;"
+  But she applied to an auld woman,
+    Who had mair skill than she.
+
+  Instead o dancers to dance a dance,
+    Or minstrells for to play,
+  Four-and-twenty wall-wight men
+    Turnd birds o feathers gray;
+
+  Her seven sons in seven swans,
+    Aboon their heads to flee;
+  And he himsell a gay gos-hawk,
+    A bird o high degree.
+
+  This flock o birds took flight and flew
+    Beyond the raging sea,
+  And landed near the Earl Mar's castle,
+    Took shelter in every tree.
+
+  They were a flock o pretty birds,
+    Right comely to be seen;
+  The people viewed them wi surprise,
+    As they dancd on the green.
+
+  These birds ascended frae the tree
+    And lighted on the ha,
+  And at the last wi force did flee
+    Amang the nobles a'.
+
+  The storks there seized some o the men,
+    They coud neither fight nor flee;
+  The swans they bound the bride's best man
+    Below a green aik tree.
+
+  They lighted next on maidens fair,
+    Then on the bride's own head,
+  And wi the twinkling o an ee
+    The bride and them were fled.
+
+  There's ancient men at weddings been
+    For sixty years or more,
+  But sic a curious wedding-day
+    They never saw before.
+
+  For naething coud the companie do.
+    Nor naething coud they say
+  But they saw a flock o pretty birds
+    That took their bride away.
+
+  When that Earl Mar he came to know
+    Where his dochter did stay,
+  He signd a bond o unity,
+    And visits now they pay.
+
+
+
+
+EDWARD, EDWARD.
+
+
+  Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid,
+                                Edward, Edward?
+  Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid?
+            And quhy sae sad gang zee, O?
+  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
+                                 Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid:
+                   And I had nae mair bot hee, O.
+
+  Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
+                                  Edward, Edward.
+  Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
+                    My deir son I tell thee, O.
+  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
+                                  Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
+                   That erst was sae fair and free, O.
+
+  Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
+                                  Edward, Edward;
+  Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
+                   Sum other dule ze drie, O.
+  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
+                                  Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
+                   Alas! and wae is mee, O!
+
+  And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that,
+                               Edward, Edward?
+  And quhatten penance will ze drie for that?
+                 My deir son, now tell mee, O.
+  He set my feit in zonder boat,
+                                Mither, mither:
+  He set my feit in zonder boat,
+                    And He fare ovir the sea, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
+                                 Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
+                  That were sae fair to see, O?
+  He let thame stand til they doun fa',
+                                   Mither, mither:
+  He let thame stand til they doun fa',
+                    For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
+                                      Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
+                      Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O?
+  The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,
+                                     Mither, mither;
+  The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,
+                   For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir,
+                                 Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir?
+                    My deir son, now tell me, O.
+  The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir,
+                                 Mither, mither:
+  The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir,
+                 Sic counseils ze gave to me, O.
+
+
+
+KING LEIR & HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+
+
+  King Leir once ruled in this land
+    With princely power and peace;
+  And had all things with hearts content,
+    That might his joys increase.
+  Amongst those things that nature gave,
+    Three daughters fair had he,
+  So princely seeming beautiful,
+    As fairer could not be.
+
+  So on a time it pleas'd the king
+    A question thus to move,
+  Which of his daughters to his grace
+    Could shew the dearest love:
+  For to my age you bring content,
+    Quoth he, then let me hear,
+  Which of you three in plighted troth
+    The kindest will appear.
+
+  To whom the eldest thus began;
+    Dear father, mind, quoth she,
+  Before your face, to do you good,
+    My blood shall render'd be:
+  And for your sake my bleeding heart
+    Shall here be cut in twain,
+  Ere that I see your reverend age
+    The smallest grief sustain.
+
+  And so will I, the second said;
+    Dear father, for your sake,
+  The worst of all extremities
+    I'll gently undertake:
+  And serve your highness night and day
+    With diligence and love;
+  That sweet content and quietness
+    Discomforts may remove.
+
+  In doing so, you glad my soul,
+    The aged king reply'd;
+  But what sayst thou, my youngest girl,
+    How is thy love ally'd?
+  My love (quoth young Cordelia then)
+    Which to your grace I owe,
+  Shall be the duty of a child,
+    And that is all I'll show.
+
+  And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he,
+    Than doth thy duty bind?
+  I well perceive thy love is small,
+    When as no more I find.
+  Henceforth I banish thee my court,
+    Thou art no child of mine;
+  Nor any part of this my realm
+    By favour shall be thine.
+
+  Thy elder sisters loves are more
+    Then well I can demand,
+  To whom I equally bestow
+    My kingdome and my land,
+  My pompal state and all my goods,
+    That lovingly I may
+  With those thy sisters be maintain'd
+    Until my dying day.
+
+  Thus flattering speeches won renown,
+    By these two sisters here;
+  The third had causeless banishment,
+    Yet was her love more dear:
+  For poor Cordelia patiently
+    Went wandring up and down,
+  Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,
+    Through many an English town:
+
+  Untill at last in famous France
+    She gentler fortunes found;
+  Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd
+    The fairest on the ground:
+  Where when the king her virtues heard,
+    And this fair lady seen,
+  With full consent of all his court
+    He made his wife and queen.
+
+  Her father king Leir this while
+    With his two daughters staid:
+  Forgetful of their promis'd loves,
+    Full soon the same decay'd;
+  And living in queen Ragan's court,
+    The eldest of the twain,
+  She took from him his chiefest means,
+    And most of all his train.
+
+  For whereas twenty men were wont
+    To wait with bended knee:
+  She gave allowance but to ten,
+    And after scarce to three;
+  Nay, one she thought too much for him;
+    So took she all away,
+  In hope that in her court, good king,
+    He would no longer stay.
+
+  Am I rewarded thus, quoth he,
+    In giving all I have
+  Unto my children, and to beg
+    For what I lately gave?
+  I'll go unto my Gonorell:
+    My second child, I know,
+  Will be more kind and pitiful,
+    And will relieve my woe.
+
+  Full fast he hies then to her court;
+    Where when she heard his moan
+  Return'd him answer, That she griev'd
+    That all his means were gone:
+  But no way could relieve his wants;
+    Yet if that he would stay
+  Within her kitchen, he should have
+    What scullions gave away.
+
+  When he had heard, with bitter tears,
+    He made his answer then;
+  In what I did let me be made
+    Example to all men.
+  I will return again, quoth he,
+    Unto my Ragan's court;
+  She will not use me thus, I hope,
+    But in a kinder sort.
+
+  Where when he came, she gave command
+    To drive him thence away:
+  When he was well within her court
+    (She said) he would not stay.
+  Then back again to Gonorell
+    The woeful king did hie,
+  That in her kitchen he might have
+    What scullion boy set by.
+
+  But there of that he was deny'd,
+    Which she had promis'd late:
+  For once refusing, he should not
+    Come after to her gate.
+  Thus twixt his daughters, for relief
+    He wandred up and down;
+  Being glad to feed on beggars food,
+    That lately wore a crown.
+
+  And calling to remembrance then
+    His youngest daughters words,
+  That said the duty of a child
+    Was all that love affords:
+  But doubting to repair to her,
+    Whom he had banish'd so,
+  Grew frantick mad; for in his mind
+    He bore the wounds of woe:
+
+  Which made him rend his milk-white locks,
+    And tresses from his head,
+  And all with blood bestain his cheeks,
+    With age and honour spread.
+  To hills and woods and watry founts
+    He made his hourly moan,
+  Till hills and woods and sensless things,
+    Did seem to sigh and groan.
+
+  Even thus possest with discontents,
+    He passed o're to France,
+  In hopes from fair Cordelia there,
+    To find some gentler chance;
+  Most virtuous dame! which when she heard,
+    Of this her father's grief,
+  As duty bound, she quickly sent
+    Him comfort and relief:
+  And by a train of noble peers,
+    In brave and gallant sort,
+  She gave in charge he should be brought
+    To Aganippus' court;
+  Whose royal king, with noble mind
+    So freely gave consent,
+  To muster up his knights at arms,
+    To fame and courage bent.
+
+  And so to England came with speed,
+    To repossesse king Leir
+  And drive his daughters from their thrones
+    By his Cordelia dear.
+  Where she, true-hearted noble queen,
+    Was in the battel slain;
+  Yet he, good king, in his old days,
+    Possest his crown again.
+
+  But when he heard Cordelia's death,
+    Who died indeed for love
+  Of her dear father, in whose cause
+    She did this battle move;
+  He swooning fell upon her breast,
+    From whence he never parted:
+  But on her bosom left his life,
+    That was so truly hearted.
+
+  The lords and nobles when they saw
+    The end of these events,
+  The other sisters unto death
+    They doomed by consents;
+  And being dead, their crowns they left
+    Unto the next of kin:
+  Thus have you seen the fall of pride,
+    And disobedient sin.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+HYND HORN
+
+
+  "Hynde Horn's bound, love, and Hynde Horn's free;
+  Whare was ye born? or frae what cuntrie?"
+
+  "In gude greenwud whare I was born,
+  And all my friends left me forlorn.
+
+  "I gave my love a gay gowd wand,
+  That was to rule oure all Scotland.
+
+  "My love gave me a silver ring,
+  That was to rule abune aw thing.
+
+  "Whan that ring keeps new in hue,
+  Ye may ken that your love loves you.
+
+  "Whan that ring turns pale and wan,
+  Ye may ken that your love loves anither man."
+
+  He hoisted up his sails, and away sailed he
+  Till he cam to a foreign cuntree.
+
+  Whan he lookit to his ring, it was turnd pale and wan;
+  Says, I wish I war at hame again.
+
+  He hoisted up his sails, and hame sailed he
+  Until he cam till his ain cuntree.
+
+  The first ane that he met with,
+  It was with a puir auld beggar-man.
+
+  "What news? what news, my puir auld man?
+  What news hae ye got to tell to me?"
+
+  "Na news, na news," the puir man did say,
+  "But this is our queen's wedding-day."
+
+  "Ye'll lend me your begging-weed,
+  And I'll lend you my riding-steed."
+    "My begging-weed is na for thee,
+  Your riding-steed is na for me."
+
+  He has changed wi the puir auld beggar-man.
+
+  "What is the way that ye use to gae?
+  And what are the words that ye beg wi?"
+
+  "Whan ye come to yon high hill,
+  Ye'll draw your bent bow nigh until.
+
+  "Whan ye come to yon town-end,
+  Ye'll lat your bent bow low fall doun.
+
+  "Ye'll seek meat for St Peter, ask for St Paul,
+  And seek for the sake of your Hynde Horn all.
+
+  "But tak ye frae nane o them aw
+  Till ye get frae the bonnie bride hersel O."
+
+  Whan he cam to yon high hill,
+  He drew his bent bow nigh until.
+
+  And when he cam to yon toun-end,
+  He loot his bent bow low fall doun.
+
+  He sought for St Peter, he askd for St Paul,
+  And he sought for the sake of his Hynde Horn all.
+
+  But he took na frae ane o them aw
+  Till he got frae the bonnie bride hersel O.
+
+  The bride cam tripping doun the stair,
+  Wi the scales o red gowd on her hair.
+
+  Wi a glass o red wine in her hand,
+  To gie to the puir beggar-man.
+
+  Out he drank his glass o wine,
+  Into it he dropt the ring.
+
+  "Got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land,
+  Or got ye't aff a drownd man's hand?"
+
+  "I got na't by sea, I got na't by land,
+  Nor gat I it aff a drownd man's hand;
+
+  "But I got it at my wooing,
+  And I'll gie it to your wedding."
+
+  "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my head,
+  I'll follow you, and beg my bread.
+
+  "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my hair,
+  I'll follow you for evermair."
+
+  She has tane the scales o gowd frae her head,
+  She's followed him, to beg her bread.
+
+  She has tane the scales o gowd frae her hair,
+  And she has followd him evermair.
+
+  Atween the kitchen and the ha,
+  There he loot his cloutie cloak fa.
+
+  The red gowd shined oure them aw,
+  And the bride frae the bridegroom was stown awa.
+
+
+
+
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+
+
+  Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,
+  Because he fought for Freedom and the stricken Negro slave;
+  Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,
+  But his soul is marching on.
+
+                           _Chorus_
+
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       His soul is marching on.
+
+  He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true;
+  His little patriot band into a noble army grew;
+  He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true,
+  And his soul is marching on.
+
+  'Twas not till John Brown lost his life, arose in all its might,
+  The army of the Union men that won the fearful fight;
+  But tho' the glad event, oh! it never met his sight,
+  Still his soul is marching on.
+
+  John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above,
+  Where live the happy spirits in their harmony and love,
+  John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above,
+  And his soul is marching on.
+
+
+
+ TIPPERARY
+
+
+  Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day,
+  As the streets are paved with gold, sure everyone was gay;
+  Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square,
+  Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:--
+
+_Chorus_
+
+  "It's a long way to Tipperary,
+  It's a long way to go;
+  It's a long way to Tipperary,
+  To the sweetest girl I know!
+  Good-bye Piccadilly,
+  Farewell, Leicester Square,
+  It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
+  But my heart's right there!"
+
+  Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O',
+  Saying, "Should you not receive it, write and let me know!
+  "If I make mistakes in 'spelling,' Molly dear,' said he,
+  "Remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me."
+
+  Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy O',
+  Saying, "Mike Maloney wants to marry me, and so
+  Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you'll be to blame,
+  For love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the same!"
+
+
+
+
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+
+
+  There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,
+    And he was a squires son:
+  He loved the bayliffes daughter deare,
+    That lived in Islington.
+
+  Yet she was coye, and would not believe
+    That he did love her soe,
+  Noe nor at any time would she
+    Any countenance to him showe.
+
+  But when his friendes did understand
+    His fond and foolish minde,
+  They sent him up to faire London
+    An apprentice for to binde.
+
+  And when he had been seven long yeares,
+    And never his love could see:
+  Many a teare have I shed for her sake,
+    When she little thought of mee.
+
+  Then all the maids of Islington
+    Went forth to sport and playe,
+  All but the bayliffes daughter deare;
+    She secretly stole awaye.
+
+  She pulled off her gowne of greene,
+    And put on ragged attire,
+  And to faire London she would goe
+    Her true love to enquire.
+
+  And as she went along the high road,
+    The weather being hot and drye,
+  She sat her downe upon a green bank,
+    And her true love came riding bye.
+
+  She started up, with a colour soe redd,
+    Catching hold of his bridle-reine;
+  One penny, one penny, kind Sir, she sayd,
+    Will ease me of much paine.
+
+  Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,
+    Praye tell me where you were borne:
+  At Islington, kind Sir, sayd shee,
+    Where I have had many a scorne.
+
+  I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,
+    O tell me, whether you knowe
+  The bayliffes daughter of Islington:
+    She is dead, Sir, long agoe.
+
+  If she be dead, then take my horse,
+    My saddle and bridle also;
+  For I will into some far countrye,
+    Where noe man shall me knowe.
+
+  O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe,
+    She standeth by thy side;
+  She is here alive, she is not dead,
+    And readye to be thy bride.
+
+  O farewell griefe, and welcome joye,
+    Ten thousand times therefore;
+  For nowe I have founde mine owne true love,
+    Whom I thought I should never see more.
+
+
+
+
+THE THREE RAVENS
+
+
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+    Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+    With a downe
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+  They were as blacke as they might be
+    With a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe
+
+  The one of them said to his mate,
+  "Where shall we our breakefast take?"
+
+  "Downe in yonder greene field,
+  There lies a knight slain vnder his shield.
+
+  "His hounds they lie downe at his feete,
+  So well they can their master keepe.
+
+  "His haukes they flie so eagerly,
+  There's no fowle dare him come nie."
+
+  Downe there comes a fallow doe,
+  As great with yong as she might goe.
+
+  She lift up his bloudy hed,
+  And kist his wounds that were so red.
+
+  She got him up upon her backe,
+  And carried him to earthen lake.
+
+  She buried him before the prime,
+  She was dead herselfe ere even-song time.
+
+  God send every gentleman,
+  Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman.
+
+
+
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+
+
+  The pauky auld Carle come ovir the lee
+  Wi' mony good-eens and days to mee,
+  Saying, Good wife, for zour courtesie,
+    Will ze lodge a silly poor man?
+  The night was cauld, the carle was wat,
+  And down azont the ingle he sat;
+  My dochtors shoulders he gan to clap,
+    And cadgily ranted and sang.
+
+  O wow! quo he, were I as free,
+  As first when I saw this countrie,
+  How blyth and merry wad I bee!
+    And I wad nevir think lang.
+  He grew canty, and she grew fain;
+  But little did her auld minny ken
+  What thir slee twa togither were say'n,
+    When wooing they were sa thrang.
+
+  And O! quo he, ann ze were as black,
+  As evir the crown of your dadyes hat,
+  Tis I wad lay thee by my backe,
+    And awa wi' me thou sould gang.
+  And O! quoth she, ann I were as white,
+  As evir the snaw lay on the dike,
+  Ild dead me braw, and lady-like,
+    And awa with thee Ild gang.
+
+  Between them twa was made a plot;
+  They raise a wee before the cock,
+  And wyliely they shot the lock,
+    And fast to the bent are they gane.
+  Up the morn the auld wife raise,
+  And at her leisure put on her claiths,
+  Syne to the servants bed she gaes
+    To speir for the silly poor man.
+
+  She gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay,
+  The strae was cauld, he was away,
+  She clapt her hands, cryd, Dulefu' day!
+    For some of our geir will be gane.
+  Some ran to coffer, and some to kist,
+  But nought was stown that could be mist.
+  She dancid her lane, cryd, Praise be blest,
+    I have lodgd a leal poor man.
+
+  Since naithings awa, as we can learn,
+  The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn,
+  Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn,
+    And bid her come quickly ben.
+  The servant gaed where the dochter lay,
+  The sheets was cauld, she was away,
+  And fast to her goodwife can say,
+    Shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man.
+
+  O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin,
+  And haste ze, find these traitors agen;
+  For shees be burnt, and hees be slein,
+    The wearyfou gaberlunzie-man.
+  Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit
+  The wife was wood, and out o' her wit;
+  She could na gang, nor yet could sit,
+    But ay did curse and did ban.
+
+  Mean time far hind out owre the lee,
+  For snug in a glen, where nane could see,
+  The twa, with kindlie sport and glee
+    Cut frae a new cheese a whang.
+  The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith,
+  To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith.
+  Quo she, to leave thee, I will laith,
+    My winsome gaberlunzie-man.
+
+  O kend my minny I were wi' zou,
+  Illfardly wad she crook her mou,
+  Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow,
+    Aftir the gaberlunzie-mon.
+  My dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge;
+  And hae na learnt the beggars tonge,
+  To follow me frae toun to toun,
+    And carrie the gaberlunzie on.
+
+  Wi' kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread,
+  And spindles and whorles for them wha need,
+  Whilk is a gentil trade indeed
+    The gaberlunzie to carrie--o.
+  Ill bow my leg and crook my knee,
+  And draw a black clout owre my ee,
+  A criple or blind they will cau me:
+    While we sail sing and be merrie--o.
+
+
+
+
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+
+  There lived a wife at Usher's Well,
+    And a wealthy wife was she;
+  She had three stout and stalwart sons,
+    And sent them oer the sea.
+
+  They hadna been a week from her,
+    A week but barely ane,
+  Whan word came to the carline wife
+    That her three sons were gane.
+
+  They hadna been a week from her,
+    A week but barely three,
+  Whan word came to the carlin wife
+    That her sons she'd never see.
+
+  "I wish the wind may never cease,
+    Nor fashes in the flood,
+  Till my three sons come hame to me,
+    In earthly flesh and blood."
+
+  It fell about the Martinmass,
+    When nights are lang and mirk,
+  The carlin wife's three sons came hame,
+    And their hats were o the birk.
+
+  It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
+    Nor yet in ony sheugh;
+  But at the gates o Paradise,
+     That birk grew fair eneugh.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  "Blow up the fire, my maidens,
+    Bring water from the well;
+  For a' my house shall feast this night,
+    Since my three sons are well."
+
+  And she has made to them a bed,
+    She's made it large and wide,
+  And she's taen her mantle her about,
+    Sat down at the bed-side.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Up then crew the red, red cock,
+    And up and crew the gray;
+  The eldest to the youngest said,
+  'Tis time we were away.
+
+  The cock he hadna crawd but once,
+    And clappd his wings at a',
+  When the youngest to the eldest said,
+    Brother, we must awa.
+
+  "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
+    The channerin worm doth chide;
+  Gin we be mist out o our place,
+    A sair pain we maun bide.
+
+  "Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
+    Fareweel to barn and byre!
+  And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
+    That kindles my mother's fire!"
+
+
+
+
+THE LYE
+
+
+  Goe, soule, the bodies guest,
+    Upon a thanklesse arrant;
+  Feare not to touche the best,
+    The truth shall be thy warrant:
+      Goe, since I needs must dye,
+      And give the world the lye.
+
+  Goe tell the court, it glowes
+    And shines like rotten wood;
+  Goe tell the church it showes
+    What's good, and doth no good:
+      If church and court reply,
+      Then give them both the lye.
+
+  Tell potentates they live
+    Acting by others actions;
+  Not lov'd unlesse they give,
+    Not strong but by their factions;
+      If potentates reply,
+      Give potentates the lye.
+
+  Tell men of high condition,
+    That rule affairs of state,
+  Their purpose is ambition,
+    Their practise onely hate;
+      And if they once reply,
+      Then give them all the lye.
+
+  Tell them that brave it most,
+    They beg for more by spending,
+  Who in their greatest cost
+    Seek nothing but commending;
+      And if they make reply,
+      Spare not to give the lye.
+
+  Tell zeale, it lacks devotion;
+    Tell love, it is but lust;
+  Tell time, it is but motion;
+    Tell flesh, it is but dust;
+      And wish them not reply,
+      For thou must give the lye.
+
+  Tell age, it daily wasteth;
+    Tell honour, how it alters:
+  Tell beauty, how she blasteth;
+    Tell favour, how she falters;
+      And as they shall reply,
+      Give each of them the lye.
+
+  Tell wit, how much it wrangles
+    In tickle points of nicenesse;
+  Tell wisedome, she entangles
+    Herselfe in over-wisenesse;
+      And if they do reply,
+      Straight give them both the lye.
+
+  Tell physicke of her boldnesse;
+    Tell skill, it is pretension;
+  Tell charity of coldness;
+    Tell law, it is contention;
+      And as they yield reply,
+      So give them still the lye.
+
+  Tell fortune of her blindnesse;
+    Tell nature of decay;
+  Tell friendship of unkindnesse;
+    Tell justice of delay:
+      And if they dare reply,
+      Then give them all the lye.
+
+  Tell arts, they have no soundnesse,
+    But vary by esteeming;
+  Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse;
+    And stand too much on seeming:
+      If arts and schooles reply.
+      Give arts and schooles the lye.
+
+  Tell faith, it's fled the citie;
+    Tell how the countrey erreth;
+  Tell, manhood shakes off pitie;
+    Tell, vertue least preferreth:
+      And, if they doe reply,
+      Spare not to give the lye.
+
+  So, when thou hast, as I
+    Commanded thee, done blabbing,
+  Although to give the lye
+    Deserves no less than stabbing,
+      Yet stab at thee who will,
+      No stab the soule can kill.
+
+
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+
+I.
+
+
+  He did not wear his scarlet coat,
+    For blood and wine are red,
+  And blood and wine were on his hands
+    When they found him with the dead,
+  The poor dead woman whom he loved,
+    And murdered in her bed.
+
+  He walked amongst the Trial Men
+    In a suit of shabby grey;
+  A cricket cap was on his head,
+    And his step seemed light and gay;
+  But I never saw a man who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw a man who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    Which prisoners call the sky,
+  And at every drifting cloud that went
+    With sails of silver by.
+
+  I walked, with other souls in pain,
+    Within another ring,
+  And was wondering if the man had done
+    A great or little thing,
+  When a voice behind me whispered low,
+    _"That fellow's got to swing."_
+
+  Dear Christ! the very prison walls
+    Suddenly seemed to reel,
+  And the sky above my head became
+    Like a casque of scorching steel;
+  And, though I was a soul in pain,
+    My pain I could not feel.
+
+  I only knew what hunted thought
+    Quickened his step, and why
+  He looked upon the garish day
+    With such a wistful eye;
+  The man had killed the thing he loved,
+    And so he had to die.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
+    By each let this be heard,
+  Some do it with a bitter look,
+    Some with a flattering word.
+  The coward does it with a kiss,
+    The brave man with a sword!
+
+  Some kill their love when they are young,
+    And some when they are old;
+  Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
+    Some with the hands of Gold:
+  The kindest use a knife, because
+    The dead so soon grow cold.
+
+  Some love too little, some too long,
+    Some sell, and others buy;
+  Some do the deed with many tears,
+    And some without a sigh:
+  For each man kills the thing he loves,
+    Yet each man does not die.
+
+  He does not die a death of shame
+    On a day of dark disgrace,
+  Nor have a noose about his neck,
+    Nor a cloth upon his face,
+  Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
+    Into an empty space.
+
+  He does not sit with silent men
+    Who watch him night and day;
+  Who watch him when he tries to weep,
+    And when he tries to pray;
+  Who watch him lest himself should rob
+    The prison of its prey.
+
+  He does not wake at dawn to see
+    Dread figures throng his room,
+  The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
+    The Sheriff stern with gloom,
+  And the Governor all in shiny black,
+    With the yellow face of Doom.
+
+  He does not rise in piteous haste
+    To put on convict-clothes,
+  While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
+    Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
+  Fingering a watch whose little ticks
+    Are like horrible hammer-blows.
+
+  He does not feel that sickening thirst
+    That sands one's throat, before
+  The hangman with his gardener's gloves
+    Comes through the padded door,
+  And binds one with three leathern thongs,
+    That the throat may thirst no more.
+
+  He does not bend his head to hear
+    The Burial Office read,
+  Nor, while the anguish of his soul
+    Tells him he is not dead,
+  Cross his own coffin, as he moves
+    Into the hideous shed.
+
+  He does not stare upon the air
+    Through a little roof of glass:
+  He does not pray with lips of clay
+    For his agony to pass;
+  Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
+    The kiss of Caiaphas.
+
+
+II
+
+
+  Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard
+    In the suit of shabby grey:
+  His cricket cap was on his head,
+    And his step seemed light and gay,
+  But I never saw a man who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw a man who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    Which prisoners call the sky,
+  And at every wandering cloud that trailed
+    Its ravelled fleeces by.
+
+  He did not wring his hands, as do
+    Those witless men who dare
+  To try to rear the changeling
+    In the cave of black Despair:
+  He only looked upon the sun,
+    And drank the morning air.
+
+  He did not wring his hands nor weep,
+    Nor did he peek or pine,
+  But he drank the air as though it held
+    Some healthful anodyne;
+  With open mouth he drank the sun
+    As though it had been wine!
+
+  And I and all the souls in pain,
+    Who tramped the other ring,
+  Forgot if we ourselves had done
+    A great or little thing,
+  And watched with gaze of dull amaze
+    The man who had to swing.
+
+  For strange it was to see him pass
+    With a step so light and gay,
+  And strange it was to see him look
+    So wistfully at the day,
+  And strange it was to think that he
+    Had such a debt to pay.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
+    That in the spring-time shoot:
+  But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
+    With its adder-bitten root,
+  And, green or dry, a man must die
+    Before it bears its fruit!
+
+  The loftiest place is that seat of grace
+    For which all worldlings try:
+  But who would stand in hempen band
+    Upon a scaffold high,
+  And through a murderer's collar take
+    His last look at the sky?
+
+  It is sweet to dance to violins
+    When Love and Life are fair:
+  To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
+    Is delicate and rare:
+  But it is not sweet with nimble feet
+    To dance upon the air!
+
+  So with curious eyes and sick surmise
+    We watched him day by day,
+  And wondered if each one of us
+    Would end the self-same way,
+  For none can tell to what red Hell
+    His sightless soul may stray.
+
+  At last the dead man walked no more
+    Amongst the Trial Men,
+  And I knew that he was standing up
+    In the black dock's dreadful pen,
+  And that never would I see his face
+    For weal or woe again.
+
+  Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
+    We had crossed each other's way:
+  But we made no sign, we said no word,
+    We had no word to say;
+  For we did not meet in the holy night,
+    But in the shameful day.
+
+  A prison wall was round us both,
+    Two outcast men we were:
+  The world had thrust us from its heart,
+    And God from out His care:
+  And the iron gin that waits for Sin
+    Had caught us in its snare.
+
+
+III.
+
+
+  In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
+    And the dripping wall is high,
+  So it was there he took the air
+    Beneath the leaden sky,
+  And by each side a Warder walked,
+    For fear the man might die.
+
+  Or else he sat with those who watched
+    His anguish night and day;
+  Who watched him when he rose to weep,
+    And when he crouched to pray;
+  Who watched him lest himself should rob
+    Their scaffold of its prey.
+
+  The Governor was strong upon
+    The Regulations Act:
+  The Doctor said that Death was but
+    A scientific fact:
+  And twice a day the Chaplain called,
+    And left a little tract.
+
+  And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
+    And drank his quart of beer:
+  His soul was resolute, and held
+    No hiding-place for fear;
+  He often said that he was glad
+    The hangman's day was near.
+
+  But why he said so strange a thing
+    No warder dared to ask:
+  For he to whom a watcher's doom
+    Is given as his task,
+  Must set a lock upon his lips
+    And make his face a mask.
+
+  Or else he might be moved, and try
+    To comfort or console:
+  And what should Human Pity do
+    Pent up in Murderer's Hole?
+  What word of grace in such a place
+    Could help a brother's soul?
+
+  With slouch and swing around the ring
+    We trod the Fools' Parade!
+  We did not care: we knew we were
+    The Devil's Own Brigade:
+  And shaven head and feet of lead
+    Make a merry masquerade.
+
+  We tore the tarry rope to shreds
+    With blunt and bleeding nails;
+  We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
+    And cleaned the shining rails:
+  And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
+    And clattered with the pails.
+
+  We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
+    We turned the dusty drill:
+  We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
+    And sweated on the mill:
+  But in the heart of every man
+    Terror was lying still.
+
+  So still it lay that every day
+    Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:
+  And we forgot the bitter lot
+    That waits for fool and knave,
+  Till once, as we tramped in from work,
+    We passed an open grave.
+
+  With yawning mouth the yellow hole
+    Gaped for a living thing;
+  The very mud cried out for blood
+    To the thirsty asphalte ring:
+  And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
+    Some prisoner had to swing.
+
+  Right in we went, with soul intent
+    On Death and Dread and Doom:
+  The hangman, with his little bag,
+    Went shuffling through the gloom:
+  And I trembled as I groped my way
+    Into my numbered tomb.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  That night the empty corridors
+    Were full of forms of Fear,
+  And up and down the iron town
+    Stole feet we could not hear,
+  And through the bars that hide the stars
+    White faces seemed to peer.
+
+  He lay as one who lies and dreams
+    In a pleasant meadow-land,
+  The watchers watched him as he slept,
+    And could not understand
+  How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
+    With a hangman close at hand.
+
+  But there is no sleep when men must weep
+    Who never yet have wept:
+  So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave--
+    That endless vigil kept,
+  And through each brain on hands of pain
+    Another's terror crept.
+
+  Alas! it is a fearful thing
+    To feel another's guilt!
+  For, right, within, the Sword of Sin
+    Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
+  And as molten lead were the tears we shed
+    For the blood we had not spilt.
+
+  The warders with their shoes of felt
+    Crept by each padlocked door,
+  And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
+    Grey figures on the floor,
+  And wondered why men knelt to pray
+    Who never prayed before.
+
+  All through the night we knelt and prayed,
+    Mad mourners of a corse!
+  The troubled plumes of midnight shook
+    The plumes upon a hearse:
+  And bitter wine upon a sponge
+    Was the savour of Remorse.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,
+    But never came the day:
+  And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,
+    In the corners where we lay:
+  And each evil sprite that walks by night
+    Before us seemed to play.
+
+  They glided past, they glided fast,
+    Like travellers through a mist:
+  They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
+    Of delicate turn and twist,
+  And with formal pace and loathsome grace
+    The phantoms kept their tryst.
+
+  With mop and mow, we saw them go,
+    Slim shadows hand in hand:
+  About, about, in ghostly rout
+    They trod a saraband:
+  And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
+    Like the wind upon the sand!
+
+  With the pirouettes of marionettes,
+    They tripped on pointed tread:
+  But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
+    As their grisly masque they led,
+  And loud they sang, and long they sang,
+    For they sang to wake the dead.
+
+  _"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide,
+    But fettered limbs go lame!
+  And once, or twice, to throw the dice
+    Is a gentlemanly game,
+  But he does not win who plays with Sin
+    In the secret House of Shame."_
+
+  No things of air these antics were,
+    That frolicked with such glee:
+  To men whose lives were held in gyves,
+    And whose feet might not go free,
+  Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
+    Most terrible to see.
+
+  Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
+    Some wheeled in smirking pairs;
+  With the mincing step of a demirep
+    Some sidled up the stairs:
+  And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
+    Each helped us at our prayers.
+
+  The morning wind began to moan,
+    But still the night went on:
+  Through its giant loom the web of gloom
+    Crept till each thread was spun:
+  And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
+    Of the Justice of the Sun.
+
+  The moaning wind went wandering round
+    The weeping prison-wall:
+  Till like a wheel of turning steel
+    We felt the minutes crawl:
+  O moaning wind! what had we done
+    To have such a seneschal?
+
+  At last I saw the shadowed bars,
+    Like a lattice wrought in lead,
+  Move right across the whitewashed wall
+    That faced my three-plank bed,
+  And I knew that somewhere in the world
+    God's dreadful dawn was red.
+
+  At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
+    At seven all was still,
+  But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
+    The prison seemed to fill,
+  For the Lord of Death with icy breath
+    Had entered in to kill.
+
+  He did not pass in purple pomp,
+    Nor ride a moon-white steed.
+  Three yards of cord and a sliding board
+    Are all the gallows' need:
+  So with rope of shame the Herald came
+    To do the secret deed.
+
+  We were as men who through a fen
+    Of filthy darkness grope:
+  We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
+    Or to give our anguish scope:
+  Something was dead in each of us,
+    And what was dead was Hope.
+
+  For Man's grim Justice goes its way,
+    And will not swerve aside:
+  It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
+    It has a deadly stride:
+  With iron heel it slays the strong,
+    The monstrous parricide!
+
+  We waited for the stroke of eight:
+    Each tongue was thick with thirst:
+  For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
+    That makes a man accursed,
+  And Fate will use a running noose
+    For the best man and the worst.
+
+  We had no other thing to do,
+    Save to wait for the sign to come:
+  So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
+    Quiet we sat and dumb:
+  But each man's heart beat thick and quick,
+    Like a madman on a drum!
+
+  With sudden shock the prison-clock
+    Smote on the shivering air,
+  And from all the gaol rose up a wail
+    Of impotent despair,
+  Like the sound that frightened marches hear
+    From some leper in his lair.
+
+  And as one sees most fearful things
+    In the crystal of a dream,
+  We saw the greasy hempen rope
+    Hooked to the blackened beam,
+  And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
+    Strangled into a scream.
+
+  And all the woe that moved him so
+    That he gave that bitter cry,
+  And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
+    None knew so well as I:
+  For he who lives more lives than one
+    More deaths than one must die.
+
+
+IV
+
+
+  There is no chapel on the day
+    On which they hang a man:
+  The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
+    Or his face is far too wan,
+  Or there is that written in his eyes
+    Which none should look upon.
+
+  So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
+    And then they rang the bell,
+  And the warders with their jingling keys
+    Opened each listening cell,
+  And down the iron stair we tramped,
+    Each from his separate Hell.
+
+  Out into God's sweet air we went,
+    But not in wonted way,
+  For this man's face was white with fear,
+    And that man's face was grey,
+  And I never saw sad men who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw sad men who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    We prisoners called the sky,
+  And at every happy cloud that passed
+    In such strange freedom by.
+
+  But there were those amongst us all
+    Who walked with downcast head,
+  And knew that, had each got his due,
+    They should have died instead:
+  He had but killed a thing that lived,
+    Whilst they had killed the dead.
+
+  For he who sins a second time
+    Wakes a dead soul to pain,
+  And draws it from its spotted shroud,
+    And makes it bleed again,
+  And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,
+    And makes it bleed in vain!
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
+    With crooked arrows starred,
+  Silently we went round and round
+    The slippery asphalte yard;
+  Silently we went round and round,
+    And no man spoke a word.
+
+  Silently we went round and round,
+    And through each hollow mind
+  The Memory of dreadful things
+    Rushed like a dreadful wind,
+  And Horror stalked before each man,
+    And Terror crept behind.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The warders strutted up and down,
+    And watched their herd of brutes,
+  Their uniforms were spick and span,
+    And they wore their Sunday suits,
+  But we knew the work they had been at,
+    By the quicklime on their boots.
+
+  For where a grave had opened wide,
+    There was no grave at all:
+  Only a stretch of mud and sand
+    By the hideous prison-wall,
+  And a little heap of burning lime,
+    That the man should have his pall.
+
+  For he has a pall, this wretched man,
+    Such as few men can claim:
+  Deep down below a prison-yard,
+    Naked for greater shame,
+  He lies, with fetters on each foot,
+    Wrapt in a sheet of flame!
+
+  And all the while the burning lime
+    Eats flesh and bone away,
+  It eats the brittle bone by night,
+    And the soft flesh by day,
+  It eats the flesh and bone by turns,
+    But it eats the heart alway.
+
+       *       *       *       *
+
+  For three long years they will not sow
+    Or root or seedling there:
+  For three long years the unblessed spot
+    Will sterile be and bare,
+  And look upon the wondering sky
+    With unreproachful stare.
+
+  They think a murderer's heart would taint
+    Each simple seed they sow.
+  It is not true! God's kindly earth
+    Is kindlier than men know,
+  And the red rose would but blow more red,
+    The white rose whiter blow.
+
+  Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
+    Out of his heart a white!
+  For who can say by what strange way,
+    Christ brings His will to light,
+  Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
+    Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?
+
+  But neither milk-white rose nor red
+    May bloom in prison-air;
+  The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
+    Are what they give us there:
+  For flowers have been known to heal
+    A common man's despair.
+
+  So never will wine-red rose or white,
+    Petal by petal, fall
+  On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
+    By the hideous prison-wall,
+  To tell the men who tramp the yard
+    That God's Son died for all.
+
+  Yet though the hideous prison-wall
+    Still hems him round and round,
+  And a spirit may not walk by night
+    That is with fetters bound,
+  And a spirit may but weep that lies
+    In such unholy ground.
+
+  He is at peace-this wretched man--
+    At peace, or will be soon:
+  There is no thing to make him mad,
+    Nor does Terror walk at noon,
+  For the lampless Earth in which he lies
+    Has neither Sun nor Moon.
+
+  They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
+    They did not even toll
+  A requiem that might have brought
+    Rest to his startled soul,
+  But hurriedly they took him out,
+    And hid him in a hole.
+
+  The warders stripped him of his clothes,
+    And gave him to the flies:
+  They mocked the swollen purple throat,
+    And the stark and staring eyes:
+  And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
+    In which the convict lies.
+
+  The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
+    By his dishonoured grave:
+  Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
+    That Christ for sinners gave,
+  Because the man was one of those
+    Whom Christ came down to save.
+
+  Yet all is well; he has but passed
+    To Life's appointed bourne:
+  And alien tears will fill for him
+    Pity's long-broken urn,
+  For his mourners will be outcast men,
+    And outcasts always mourn.
+
+
+V
+
+
+  I know not whether Laws be right,
+    Or whether Laws be wrong;
+  All that we know who lie in gaol
+    Is that the wall is strong;
+  And that each day is like a year,
+    A year whose days are long.
+
+  But this I know, that every Law
+    That men have made for Man,
+  Since first Man took his brother's life,
+    And the sad world began,
+  But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
+    With a most evil fan.
+
+  This too I know--and wise it were
+    If each could know the same--
+  That every prison that men build
+    Is built with bricks of shame,
+  And bound with bars lest Christ should see
+    How men their brothers maim.
+
+  With bars they blur the gracious moon,
+    And blind the goodly sun:
+  And they do well to hide their Hell,
+    For in it things are done
+  That Son of God nor son of Man
+    Ever should look upon!
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The vilest deeds like poison weeds,
+    Bloom well in prison-air;
+  It is only what is good in Man
+    That wastes and withers there:
+  Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
+    And the Warder is Despair.
+
+  For they starve the little frightened child
+    Till it weeps both night and day:
+  And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
+    And gibe the old and grey,
+  And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
+    And none a word may say.
+
+  Each narrow cell in which we dwell
+    Is a foul and dark latrine,
+  And the fetid breath of living Death
+    Chokes up each grated screen,
+  And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
+    In humanity's machine.
+
+  The brackish water that we drink
+   Creeps with a loathsome slime,
+  And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
+   Is full of chalk and lime,
+  And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
+   Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
+   Like asp with adder fight,
+  We have little care of prison fare,
+   For what chills and kills outright
+  Is that every stone one lifts by day
+   Becomes one's heart by night.
+
+  With midnight always in one's heart,
+   And twilight in one's cell,
+  We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
+   Each in his separate Hell,
+  And the silence is more awful far
+   Than the sound of a brazen bell.
+
+  And never a human voice comes near
+   To speak a gentle word:
+  And the eye that watches through the door
+   Is pitiless and hard:
+  And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
+   With soul and body marred.
+
+  And thus we rust Life's iron chain
+   Degraded and alone:
+  And some men curse and some men weep,
+    And some men make no moan:
+  But God's eternal Laws are kind
+    And break the heart of stone.
+
+  And every human heart that breaks,
+    In prison-cell or yard,
+  Is as that broken box that gave
+    Its treasure to the Lord,
+  And filled the unclean leper's house
+    With the scent of costliest nard.
+
+  Ah! happy they whose hearts can break
+    And peace of pardon win!
+  How else man may make straight his plan
+    And cleanse his soul from Sin?
+  How else but through a broken heart
+    May Lord Christ enter in?
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  And he of the swollen purple throat,
+    And the stark and staring eyes,
+  Waits for the holy hands that took
+    The Thief to Paradise;
+  And a broken and a contrite heart
+    The Lord will not despise.
+
+  The man in red who reads the Law
+    Gave him three weeks of life,
+  Three little weeks in which to heal    His soul of his soul's strife,
+  And cleanse from every blot of blood
+    The hand that held the knife.
+
+  And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
+    The hand that held the steel:
+  For only blood can wipe out blood,
+    And only tears can heal:
+  And the crimson stain that was of Cain
+    Became Christ's snow-white seal.
+
+
+VI
+
+
+  In Reading gaol by Reading town
+    There is a pit of shame,
+  And in it lies a wretched man
+    Eaten by teeth of flame,
+  In a burning winding-sheet he lies,
+    And his grave has got no name.
+
+  And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
+    In silence let him lie:
+  No need to waste the foolish tear,
+    Or heave the windy sigh:
+  The man had killed the thing he loved,
+    And so he had to die.
+
+  And all men kill the thing they love,
+    By all let this be heard,
+  Some do it with a bitter look,
+    Some with a flattering word,
+  The coward does it with a kiss,
+    The brave man with a sword!
+
+
+
+
+APPENDIX
+
+_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume I._
+
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+
+Printed from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection.
+
+
+KING ESTMERE
+
+This ballad is given from two versions, one in the Percy folio
+manuscript, and of considerable antiquity. The original version was
+probably written at the end of the fifteenth century.
+
+
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+
+One of the earliest known ballads about Robin Hood--from the Percy folio
+manuscript.
+
+
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+
+This ballad is printed from Richard Johnson's _Crown Garland of
+Goulden Roses,_ 1612.
+
+
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+
+This ballad is composed of innumerable small fragments of ancient
+ballads found throughout the plays of Shakespeare, which Thomas Percy
+formed into one.
+
+
+SIR ALDINGAR
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with some additional stanzas
+added by Thomas Percy to complete the story.
+
+
+EDOM O'GORDON
+
+A Scottish ballad--this version was printed at Glasgow in 1755 by Robert
+and Andrew Foulis. It has been enlarged with several stanzas, recovered
+from a fragment of the same ballad, from the Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF CHEVY CHACE
+
+From the Percy folio manuscript, amended by two or three others printed
+in black-letter. Written about the time of Elizabeth.
+
+
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+
+Given from a printed copy, corrected in part by an extract from the
+Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+THE CHILD OF ELLE
+
+Partly from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas
+by Percy as the original copy was defective and mutilated.
+
+
+KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAM WORTH
+
+The text in this ballad is selected from two copies in black-letter. One
+in the Bodleian Library, printed at London by John Danter in 1596. The
+other copy, without date, is from the Pepys Collection.
+
+
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+
+Printed from two manuscript copies transmitted from Scotland. It is
+possible that this ballad is founded on historical fact.
+
+
+EDWARD, EDWARD
+
+An old Scottish ballad--from a manuscript copy transmitted from
+Scotland.
+
+
+KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+
+Version from an old copy in the _Golden Garland,_ black-letter,
+entitled _A lamentable Song of the Death of King Lear and his Three
+Daughters._
+
+
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+
+This ballad is said to have been written by King James V of Scotland.
+
+
+
+_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume II._
+
+
+THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+
+Printed from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections.
+
+
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+
+This ballad was abridged and modernized in the time of James I from one
+much older, entitled _King John and the Bishop of Canterbury._ The
+version given here is from an ancient black-letter copy.
+
+
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+
+Given, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy, entitled
+_Barbara Alien's Cruelty, or the Young Man's Tragedy._
+
+
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+
+The version of this ballad given here is from four ancient copies in
+black-letter: two of them in the Pepys' Library. It is by Thomas Delone.
+First printed in 1612.
+
+
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+
+This is a revised and modernized version of a very old ballad.
+
+
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas
+supplied by Thomas Percy.
+
+
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+
+This ballad is from the Percy folio manuscript with additions and
+amendments from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection.
+It was written probably at the end of the sixteenth century.
+
+
+THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with a few additions and
+alterations from two ancient printed copies.
+
+
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+
+Given from an old black-letter copy.
+
+
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+
+The version of an ancient black-letter copy, edited in part from the
+Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+GIL MORRICE
+
+The version of this ballad given here was printed at Glasgow in 1755.
+Since this date sixteen additional verses have been discovered and added
+to the original ballad.
+
+
+CHILD WATERS
+
+From the Percy folio manuscript, with corrections.
+
+
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+
+From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection.
+
+
+THE LYE
+
+By Sir Walter Raleigh. This poem is from a scarce miscellany entitled
+_Davison's Poems, or a poeticall Rapsodie divided into sixe books ...
+the 4th impression newly corrected and augmented and put into a forme
+more pleasing to the reader._ Lond. 1621.
+
+
+
+_From "English and Scottish Ballads."_
+
+
+MAY COLLIN
+
+From a manuscript at Abbotsford in the Sir Walter Scott Collection,
+_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy._
+
+
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+
+_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy,_ No. 97,
+Abbotsford. From the Sir Walter Scott Collection. Communicated to Sir
+Walter by Mrs. Christiana Greenwood, London, May 27th, 1806.
+
+
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+
+Taken from the Jamieson-Brown manuscript, 1783.
+
+
+CLERK COLVILL
+
+From a transcript of No. 13 of William Tytler's Brown manuscript.
+
+
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+
+From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland,_ 1828.
+
+
+HYND HORN
+
+From Motherwell's manuscript, 1825 and after.
+
+
+THE THREE RAVENS
+
+_Melismate. Musicall Phansies. Fitting the Court, Cittie and Country
+Humours._ London, 1611. (T. Ravenscroft.)
+
+
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+Printed from _Ministrelsy of the Scottish Border_, 1802.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+MANDALAY
+
+By Rudyard Kipling.
+
+
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+
+
+IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY
+
+By Jack Judge and Harry Williams.
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+By Oscar Wilde.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Book of Old Ballads, by Various
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diff --git a/old/7535.zip b/old/7535.zip
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+Project Gutenberg's Book of Old Ballads, by Selected by Beverly Nichols
+#5 in our series by Selected by Beverly Nichols
+
+Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
+copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
+this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.
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+Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
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+**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
+
+**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
+
+*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
+
+
+Title: Book of Old Ballads
+
+Author: Selected by Beverly Nichols
+
+Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7535]
+[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
+[This file was first posted on May 14, 2003]
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury,
+Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
+
+
+
+
+A BOOK OF OLD BALLADS
+
+
+Selected and with an Introduction
+
+by
+
+BEVERLEY NICHOLS
+
+
+
+
+ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
+
+The thanks and acknowledgments of the publishers are due to the
+following: to Messrs. B. Feldman & Co., 125 Shaftesbury Avenue, W.C. 2,
+for "It's a Long Way to Tipperary"; to Mr. Rudyard Kipling and Messrs.
+Methuen & Co. for "Mandalay" from _Barrack Room Ballads_; and to
+the Executors of the late Oscar Wilde for "The Ballad of Reading Gaol."
+
+"The Earl of Mar's Daughter", "The Wife of Usher's Well", "The Three
+Ravens", "Thomas the Rhymer", "Clerk Colvill", "Young Beichen", "May
+Collin", and "Hynd Horn" have been reprinted from _English and
+Scottish Ballads_, edited by Mr. G. L. Kittredge and the late Mr. F.
+J. Child, and published by the Houghton Mifflin Company.
+
+The remainder of the ballads in this book, with the exception of "John
+Brown's Body", are from _Percy's Reliques_, Volumes I and II.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+FOREWORD
+MANDALAY
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+KING ESTMERE
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+MAY COLLIN
+THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+CLERK COLVILL
+SIR ALDINGAR
+EDOM O' GORDON
+CHEVY CHACE
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+GIL MORRICE
+THE CHILD OF ELLE
+CHILD WATERS
+KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+EDWARD, EDWARD
+KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+HYND HORN
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+TIPPERARY
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+THE THREE RAVENS
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+THE LYE
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+
+_The source of these ballads will be found in the Appendix at the end
+of this book._
+
+
+
+
+LIST OF COLOUR PLATES
+
+
+HYND HORN
+KING ESTMERE
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+MAY COLLIN
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+CLERK COLVILL
+GIL MORRICE
+CHILD WATERS
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+THE THREE RAVENS
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+
+
+
+
+FOREWORD
+
+By
+
+Beverley Nichols
+
+
+These poems are the very essence of the British spirit. They are, to
+literature, what the bloom of the heather is to the Scot, and the
+smell of the sea to the Englishman. All that is beautiful in the old
+word "patriotism" ... a word which, of late, has been twisted to such
+ignoble purposes ... is latent in these gay and full-blooded measures.
+
+But it is not only for these reasons that they are so valuable to the
+modern spirit. It is rather for their tonic qualities that they should
+be prescribed in 1934. The post-war vintage of poetry is the thinnest
+and the most watery that England has ever produced. But here, in these
+ballads, are great draughts of poetry which have lost none of their
+sparkle and none of their bouquet.
+
+It is worth while asking ourselves why this should be--why these poems
+should "keep", apparently for ever, when the average modern poem turns
+sour overnight. And though all generalizations are dangerous I believe
+there is one which explains our problem, a very simple one.... namely,
+that the eyes of the old ballad-singers were turned outwards, while the
+eyes of the modern lyric-writer are turned inwards.
+
+The authors of the old ballads wrote when the world was young, and
+infinitely exciting, when nobody knew what mystery might not lie on the
+other side of the hill, when the moon was a golden lamp, lit by a
+personal God, when giants and monsters stalked, without the slightest
+doubt, in the valleys over the river. In such a world, what could a man
+do but stare about him, with bright eyes, searching the horizon, while
+his heart beat fast in the rhythm of a song?
+
+But now--the mysteries have gone. We know, all too well, what lies on
+the other side of the hill. The scientists have long ago puffed out,
+scornfully, the golden lamp of the night ... leaving us in the uttermost
+darkness. The giants and the monsters have either skulked away or have
+been tamed, and are engaged in writing their memoirs for the popular
+press. And so, in a world where everything is known (and nothing
+understood), the modern lyric-writer wearily averts his eyes, and stares
+into his own heart.
+
+That way madness lies. All madmen are ferocious egotists, and so are all
+modern lyric-writers. That is the first and most vital difference
+between these ballads and their modern counterparts. The old
+ballad-singers hardly ever used the first person singular. The modern
+lyric-writer hardly ever uses anything else.
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+
+
+
+This is really such an important point that it is worth labouring.
+
+Why is ballad-making a lost art? That it _is_ a lost art there can
+be no question. Nobody who is painfully acquainted with the rambling,
+egotistical pieces of dreary versification, passing for modern
+"ballads", will deny it.
+
+Ballad-making is a lost art for a very simple reason. Which is, that we
+are all, nowadays, too sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought to
+receive emotions directly, without self-consciousness. If we are
+wounded, we are no longer able to sing a song about a clean sword, and a
+great cause, and a black enemy, and a waving flag. No--we must needs go
+into long descriptions of our pain, and abstruse calculations about its
+effect upon our souls.
+
+It is not "we" who have changed. It is life that has changed. "We" are
+still men, with the same legs, arms and eyes as our ancestors. But life
+has so twisted things that there are no longer any clean swords nor
+great causes, nor black enemies. And the flags do not know which way to
+flutter, so contrary are the winds of the modern world. All is doubt.
+And doubt's colour is grey.
+
+Grey is no colour for a ballad. Ballads are woven from stuff of
+primitive hue ... the red blood gushing, the gold sun shining, the green
+grass growing, the white snow falling. Never will you find grey in a
+ballad. You will find the black of the night and the raven's wing,
+and the silver of a thousand stars. You will find the blue of many
+summer skies. But you will not find grey.
+
+
+III
+
+
+That is why ballad-making is a lost art. Or almost a lost art. For even
+in this odd and musty world of phantoms which we call the twentieth
+century, there are times when a man finds himself in a certain place at
+a certain hour and something happens to him which takes him out of
+himself. And a song is born, simply and sweetly, a song which other
+men can sing, for all time, and forget themselves.
+
+Such a song was once written by a master at my old school, Marlborough.
+He was a Scot. But he loved Marlborough with the sort of love which the
+old ballad-mongers must have had-the sort of love which takes a man on
+wings, far from his foolish little body.
+
+He wrote a song called "The Scotch Marlburian".
+
+Here it is:--
+
+  Oh Marlborough, she's a toun o' touns
+  We will say that and mair,
+  We that ha' walked alang her douns
+  And snuffed her Wiltshire air.
+  A weary way ye'll hae to tramp
+  Afore ye match the green
+  O' Savernake and Barbery Camp
+  And a' that lies atween!
+
+The infinite beauty of that phrase ... "and a' that lies atween"! The
+infinite beauty as it is roared by seven hundred young throats in
+unison! For in that phrase there drifts a whole pageant of boyhood--the
+sound of cheers as a race is run on a stormy day in March, the tolling
+of the Chapel bell, the crack of ball against bat, the sighs of sleep
+in a long white dormitory.
+
+But you may say "What is all this to me? I wasn't at Maryborough. I
+don't like schoolboys ... they strike me as dirty, noisy, and usually
+foul-minded. Why should I go into raptures about such a song, which
+seems only to express a highly debatable approval of a certain method of
+education?"
+
+If you are asking yourself that sort of question, you are obviously in
+very grave need of the tonic properties of this book. For after you have
+read it, you will wonder why you ever asked it.
+
+
+IV
+
+I go back and back to the same point, at the risk of boring you to
+distraction. For it is a point which has much more "to" it than the
+average modern will care to admit, unless he is forced to do so.
+
+You remember the generalization about the eyes ... how they used to look
+_out_, but now look _in_? Well, listen to this....
+
+  _I'm_ feeling blue,
+  _I_ don't know what to do,
+  'Cos _I_ love you
+  And you don't love _me_.
+
+The above masterpiece is, as far as I am aware, imaginary. But it
+represents a sort of _reductio ad absurdum_ of thousands of lyrics
+which have been echoing over the post-war world. Nearly all these lyrics
+are melancholy, with the profound and primitive melancholy of the negro
+swamp, and they are all violently egotistical.
+
+Now this, in the long run, is an influence of far greater evil than one
+would be inclined at first to admit. If countless young men, every
+night, are to clasp countless young women to their bosoms, and rotate
+over countless dancing-floors, muttering "I'm feeling blue ... _I_
+don't know what to do", it is not unreasonable to suppose that they will
+subconsciously apply some of the lyric's mournful egotism to themselves.
+
+Anybody who has even a nodding acquaintance with modern psychological
+science will be aware of the significance of "conditioning", as applied
+to the human temperament. The late M. Coue "conditioned" people into
+happiness by making them repeat, over and over again, the phrase "Every
+day in every way I grow better and better and better."
+
+The modern lyric-monger exactly reverses M. Coue's doctrine. He makes
+the patient repeat "Every night, with all my might, I grow worse and
+worse and worse." Of course the "I" of the lyric-writer is an imaginary
+"I", but if any man sings "_I'm_ feeling blue", often enough, to a
+catchy tune, he will be a superman if he does not eventually apply that
+"I" to himself.
+
+But the "blueness" is really beside the point. It is the _egotism_
+of the modern ballad which is the trouble. Even when, as they
+occasionally do, the modern lyric-writers discover, to their
+astonishment, that they are feeling happy, they make the happiness such
+a personal issue that half its tonic value is destroyed. It is not, like
+the old ballads, just an outburst of delight, a sudden rapture at the
+warmth of the sun, or the song of the birds, or the glint of moonlight
+on a sword, or the dew in a woman's eyes. It is not an emotion so sweet
+and soaring that self is left behind, like a dull chrysalis, while the
+butterfly of the spirit flutters free. No ... the chrysalis is never
+left behind, the "I", "I", "I", continues, in a maddening monotone. And
+we get this sort of thing....
+
+  _I_ want to be happy,
+  But _I_ can't be happy
+  Till _I've_ made you happy too.
+
+And that, if you please, is one of the jolliest lyrics of the last
+decade! That was a song which made us all smile and set all our feet
+dancing!
+
+Even when their tale was woven out of the stuff of tragedy, the old
+ballads were not tarnished with such morbid speculations. Read the tale
+of the beggar's daughter of Bethnal Green. One shudders to think what a
+modern lyric-writer would make of it. We should all be in tears before
+the end of the first chorus.
+
+But here, a lovely girl leaves her blind father to search for fortune.
+She has many adventures, and in the end, she marries a knight. The
+ballad ends with words of almost childish simplicity, but they are words
+which ring with the true tone of happiness:--
+
+  Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte
+  A bridegroome most happy then was the young knighte
+  In joy and felicitie long lived hee
+  All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.
+
+I said that the words were of almost childish simplicity. But the
+student of language, and the would-be writer, might do worse than study
+those words, if only to see how the cumulative effect of brightness and
+radiance is gained. You may think the words are artless, but just
+ponder, for a moment, the number of brilliant verbal symbols which are
+collected into that tiny verse. There are only four lines. But those
+lines contain these words ...
+
+Feast, joy, delight, bridegroom, happy, joy, young, felicity, fair,
+pretty.
+
+Is that quite so artless, after all? Is it not rather like an old and
+primitive plaque, where colour is piled on colour till you would say
+the very wood will burst into flame ... and yet, the total effect is one
+of happy simplicity?
+
+
+V
+
+
+How were the early ballads born? Who made them? One man or many? Were
+they written down, when they were still young, or was it only after the
+lapse of many generations, when their rhymes had been sharpened and
+their metres polished by constant repetition, that they were finally
+copied out?
+
+To answer these questions would be one of the most fascinating tasks
+which the detective in letters could set himself. Grimm, listening
+in his fairyland, heard some of the earliest ballads, loved them,
+pondered on them, and suddenly startled the world by announcing that
+most ballads were not the work of a single author, but of the people at
+large. _Das Volk dichtet_, he said. And that phrase got him into a
+lot of trouble. People told him to get back to his fairyland and not
+make such ridiculous suggestions. For how, they asked, could a whole
+people make a poem? You might as well tell a thousand men to make a
+tune, limiting each of them to one note!
+
+To invest Grimm's words with such an intention is quite unfair.
+[Footnote:  For a discussion of Grimm's theories, together with much
+interesting speculation on the origin of the ballads, the reader should
+study the admirable introduction to _English and Scottish Popular
+Ballads_, published by George Harrap & Co., Ltd.] Obviously a
+multitude of people could not, deliberately, make a single poem any more
+than a multitude of people could, deliberately, make a single picture,
+one man doing the nose, one man an eye and so on. Such a suggestion is
+grotesque, and Grimm never meant it. If I might guess at what he meant,
+I would suggest that he was thinking that the origin of ballads must
+have been similar to the origin of the dance, (which was probably the
+earliest form of aesthetic expression known to man).
+
+The dance was invented because it provided a means of prolonging ecstasy
+by art. It may have been an ecstasy of sex or an ecstasy of victory ...
+that doesn't matter. The point is that it gave to a group of people an
+ordered means of expressing their delight instead of just leaping about
+and making loud cries, like the animals. And you may be sure that as the
+primitive dance began, there was always some member of the tribe a
+little more agile than the rest--some man who kicked a little higher or
+wriggled his body in an amusing way. And the rest of them copied him,
+and incorporated his step into their own.
+
+Apply this analogy to the origin of ballads. It fits perfectly.
+
+There has been a successful raid, or a wedding, or some great deed of
+daring, or some other phenomenal thing, natural or supernatural. And now
+that this day, which will ever linger in their memories, is drawing to
+its close, the members of the tribe draw round the fire and begin to
+make merry. The wine passes ... and tongues are loosened. And someone
+says a phrase which has rhythm and a sparkle to it, and the phrase is
+caught up and goes round the fire, and is repeated from mouth to mouth.
+And then the local wit caps it with another phrase and a rhyme is born.
+For there is always a local wit in every community, however primitive.
+There is even a local wit in the monkey house at the zoo.
+
+And once you have that single rhyme and that little piece of rhythm, you
+have the genesis of the whole thing. It may not be worked out that
+night, nor even by the men who first made it. The fire may long have
+died before the ballad is completed, and tall trees may stand over the
+men and women who were the first to tell the tale. But rhyme and rhythm
+are indestructible, if they are based on reality. "Not marble nor the
+gilded monuments of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme."
+
+And so it is that some of the loveliest poems in the language will ever
+remain anonymous. Needless to say, _all_ the poems are not
+anonymous. As society became more civilized it was inevitable that the
+peculiar circumstances from which the earlier ballads sprang should
+become less frequent. Nevertheless, about nearly all of the ballads
+there is "a common touch", as though even the most self-conscious author
+had drunk deep of the well of tradition, that sparkling well in which so
+much beauty is distilled.
+
+
+VI
+
+
+But though the author or authors of most of the ballads may be lost in
+the lists of time, we know a good deal about the minstrels who sang
+them. And it is a happy thought that those minstrels were such
+considerable persons, so honourably treated, so generously esteemed.
+The modern mind, accustomed to think of the singer of popular songs
+either as a highly paid music-hall artist, at the top of the ladder, or
+a shivering street-singer, at the bottom of it, may find it difficult to
+conceive of a minstrel as a sort of ambassador of song, moving from
+court to court with dignity and ceremony.
+
+Yet this was actually the case. In the ballad of King Estmere, for
+example, we see the minstrel finely mounted, and accompanied by a
+harpist, who sings his songs for him. This minstrel, too, moves among
+kings without any ceremony. As Percy has pointed out, "The further we
+carry our enquiries back, the greater respect we find paid to the
+professors of poetry and music among all the Celtic and Gothic nations.
+Their character was deemed so sacred that under its sanction our famous
+King Alfred made no scruple to enter the Danish camp, and was at once
+admitted to the king's headquarters."
+
+_And even so late as the time of Froissart, we have minstrels and
+heralds mentioned together, as those who might securely go into an
+enemy's country._
+
+The reader will perhaps forgive me if I harp back, once more, to our
+present day and age, in view of the quite astonishing change in national
+psychology which that revelation implies. Minstrels and heralds were
+once allowed safe conduct into the enemy's country, in time of war. Yet,
+in the last war, it was considered right and proper to hiss the work of
+Beethoven off the stage, and responsible newspapers seriously suggested
+that never again should a note of German music, of however great
+antiquity, be heard in England! We are supposed to have progressed
+towards internationalism, nowadays. Whereas, in reality, we have grown
+more and more frenziedly national. We are very far behind the age of
+Froissart, when there was a true internationalism--the internationalism
+of art.
+
+To some of us that is still a very real internationalism. When we hear a
+Beethoven sonata we do not think of it as issuing from the brain of a
+"Teuton" but as blowing from the eternal heights of music whose winds
+list nothing of frontiers.
+
+Man _needs_ song, for he is a singing animal. Moreover, he needs
+communal song, for he is a social animal. The military authorities
+realized this very cleverly, and they encouraged the troops, during the
+war, to sing on every possible occasion. Crazy pacifists, like myself,
+may find it almost unbearably bitter to think that on each side of
+various frontiers young men were being trained to sing themselves to
+death, in a struggle which was hideously impersonal, a struggle of
+machinery, in which the only winners were the armament manufacturers.
+And crazy pacifists might draw a very sharp line indeed between the
+songs which celebrated real personal struggles in the tiny wars of the
+past, and the songs which were merely the prelude to thousands of
+puzzled young men suddenly finding themselves choking in chlorine gas,
+in the wars of the present.
+
+But even the craziest pacifist could not fail to be moved by some of the
+ballads of the last war. To me, "Tipperary" is still the most moving
+tune in the world. It happens to be a very good tune, from the
+musician's point of view, a tune that Handel would not have been ashamed
+to write, but that is not the point. Its emotional qualities are due to
+its associations. Perhaps that is how it has always been, with ballads.
+From the standard of pure aesthetics, one ought not to consider
+"associations" in judging a poem or a tune, but with a song like
+"Tipperary" you would be an inhuman prig if you didn't. We all have our
+"associations" with this particular tune. For me, it recalls a window in
+Hampstead, on a grey day in October 1914. I had been having the measles,
+and had not been allowed to go back to school. Then suddenly, down the
+street, that tune echoed. And they came marching, and marching, and
+marching. And they were all so happy.
+
+So happy.
+
+
+VII
+
+
+"Tipperary" is a true ballad, which is why it is included in this book.
+So is "John Brown's Body". They were not written as ballads but they
+have been promoted to that proud position by popular vote.
+
+It will now be clear, from the foregoing remarks, that there are
+thousands of poems, labelled "ballads" from the eighteenth century,
+through the romantic movement, and onwards, which are not ballads at
+all. Swinburne's ballads, which so shocked our grandparents, bore about
+as much relation to the true ballads as a vase of wax fruit to a
+hawker's barrow. They were lovely patterns of words, woven like some
+exquisite, foaming lace, but they were Swinburne, Swinburne all the
+time. They had nothing to do with the common people. The common people
+would not have understood a word of them.
+
+Ballads _must_ be popular. And that is why it will always remain
+one of the weirdest paradoxes of literature that the only man, except
+Kipling, who has written a true ballad in the last fifty years is the
+man who despised the people, who shrank from them, and jeered at them,
+from his little gilded niche in Piccadilly. I refer, of course, to Oscar
+Wilde's "Ballad of Reading Gaol." It was a true ballad, and it was the
+best thing he ever wrote. For it was written _de profundis_, when
+his hands were bloody with labour and his tortured spirit had been down
+to the level of the lowest, to the level of the pavement ... nay, lower
+... to the gutter itself. And in the gutter, with agony, he learned the
+meaning of song.
+
+Ballads begin and end with the people. You cannot escape that fact. And
+therefore, if I wished to collect the ballads of the future, the songs
+which will endure into the next century (if there _is_ any song in
+the next century), I should not rake through the contemporary poets, in
+the hope of finding gems of lasting brilliance. No. I should go to the
+music-halls. I should listen to the sort of thing they sing when the
+faded lady with the high bust steps forward and shouts, "Now then, boys,
+all together!"
+
+Unless you can write the words "Now then, boys, all together", at the
+top of a ballad, it is not really a ballad at all. That may sound a
+sweeping statement, but it is true.
+
+In the present-day music-halls, although they have fallen from their
+high estate, we should find a number of these songs which seem destined
+for immortality. One of these is "Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore."
+
+Do you remember it?
+
+  Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!
+  Mrs. Moore, oh don't 'ave any more!
+  Too many double gins
+  Give the ladies double chins,
+  So don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!
+
+The whole of English "low life" (which is much the most exciting part of
+English life) is in that lyric. It is as vivid as a Rowlandson cartoon.
+How well we know Mrs. Moore! How plainly we see her ... the amiable,
+coarse-mouthed, generous-hearted tippler, with her elbow on countless
+counters, her damp coppers clutched in her rough hands, her eyes
+staring, a little vacantly, about her. Some may think it is a sordid
+picture, but I am sure that they cannot know Mrs. Moore very well if
+they think that. They cannot know her bitter struggles, her silent
+heroisms, nor her sardonic humour.
+
+Lyrics such as these will, I believe, endure long after many of the most
+renowned and fashionable poets of to-day are forgotten. They all have
+the same quality, that they can be prefaced by that inspiring sentence,
+"Now then, boys--all together!" Or to put it another way, as in the
+ballad of George Barnwell,
+
+  All youths of fair England
+  That dwell both far and near,
+  Regard my story that I tell
+  And to my song give ear.
+
+That may sound more dignified, but it amounts to the same thing!
+
+
+VIII
+
+
+But if the generation to come will learn a great deal from the few
+popular ballads which we are still creating in our music-halls, how much
+more shall we learn of history from these ballads, which rang through
+the whole country, and were impregnated with the spirit of a whole
+people! These ballads _are_ history, and as such they should be
+recognised.
+
+It has always seemed to me that we teach history in the wrong way. We
+give boys the impression that it is an affair only of kings and queens
+and great statesmen, of generals and admirals, and such-like bores.
+Thousands of boys could probably draw you a map of many pettifogging
+little campaigns, with startling accuracy, but not one in a thousand
+could tell you what the private soldier carried in his knapsack. You
+could get sheaves of competent essays, from any school, dealing with
+such things as the Elizabethan ecclesiastical settlement, but how many
+boys could tell you, even vaguely, what an English home was like, what
+they ate, what coins were used, how their rooms were lit, and what they
+paid their servants?
+
+In other words, how many history masters ever take the trouble to sketch
+in the great background, the life of the common people? How many even
+realize their _existence_, except on occasions of national
+disaster, such as the Black Plague?
+
+A proper study of the ballads would go a long way towards remedying this
+defect. Thomas Percy, whose _Reliques_ must ever be the main source
+of our information on all questions connected with ballads, has pointed
+out that all the great events of the country have, sooner or later,
+found their way into the country's song-book. But it is not only the
+resounding names that are celebrated. In the ballads we hear the echoes
+of the street, the rude laughter and the pointed jests. Sometimes these
+ring so plainly that they need no explanation. At other times, we have
+to go to Percy or to some of his successors to realize the true
+significance of the song.
+
+For example, the famous ballad "John Anderson my Jo" seems, at first
+sight, to be innocent of any polemical intention. But it was written
+during the Reformation when, as Percy dryly observes, "the Muses were
+deeply engaged in religious controversy." The zeal of the Scottish
+reformers was at its height, and this zeal found vent in many a pasquil
+discharged at Popery. It caused them, indeed, in their frenzy, to
+compose songs which were grossly licentious, and to sing these songs in
+rasping voices to the tunes of some of the most popular hymns in the
+Latin Service.
+
+"John Anderson my Jo" was such a ballad composed for such an occasion.
+And Percy, who was more qualified than any other man to read between the
+lines, has pointed out that the first stanza contains a satirical
+allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy, while the second, which
+makes an apparently light reference to "seven bairns", is actually
+concerned with the seven sacraments, five of which were the spurious
+offspring of Mother Church.
+
+Thus it was in a thousand cases. The ballads, even the lightest and most
+blossoming of them, were deep-rooted in the soil of English history. How
+different from anything that we possess to-day! Great causes do not lead
+men to song, nowadays they lead them to write letters to the newspapers.
+A national thanksgiving cannot call forth a single rhyme or a single bar
+of music. Who can remember a solitary verse of thanksgiving, from any of
+our poets, in commemoration of any of the victories of the Great War?
+Who can recall even a fragment of verse in praise of the long-deferred
+coming of Peace?
+
+Very deeply significant is it that our only method of commemorating
+Armistice Day was by a two minutes silence. No song. No music. Nothing.
+The best thing we could do, we felt, was to keep quiet.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+MANDALAY
+
+
+  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
+  There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
+  For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
+  'Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!'
+  Come you back to Mandalay,
+  Where the old Flotilla lay:
+  Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
+  On the road to Mandalay,
+  Where the flyin'-fishes play,
+  An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
+
+  'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
+  An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
+  An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
+  An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
+      Bloomin' idol made o' mud--
+      Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--
+      Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
+  She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing _'Kulla-lo-lo!'_
+  With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek
+  We useter watch the steamers an' the _hathis_ pilin' teak.
+      Elephints a-pilin' teak
+      In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
+      Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away,
+  An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
+  An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
+  'If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught
+            else.'
+      No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
+      But them spicy garlic smells,
+      An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
+  An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
+  Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
+  An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
+      Beefy face an' grubby 'and--
+      Law! wot do they understand?
+      I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
+      On the road to Mandalay ...
+
+  Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
+  Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
+  For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be--
+  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
+         On the road to Mandalay,
+         Where the old Flotilla lay,
+         With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
+         O the road to Mandalay,
+         Where the flyin'-fishes play,
+         An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+
+or
+
+THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE
+
+
+  Now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court,
+  One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport:
+  But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest,
+  Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest:
+  A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground,
+  As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.
+
+  The Duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben,
+  Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then.
+  O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd
+  To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd:
+  Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose,
+  And they put him to bed for to take his repose.
+
+  Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt,
+  They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt:
+  On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,
+  They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown.
+  In the morning when day, then admiring he lay,
+  For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay.
+
+  Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state,
+  Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait;
+  And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare,
+  He desired to know what apparel he'd ware:
+  The poor tinker amaz'd on the gentleman gaz'd,
+  And admired how he to this honour was rais'd.
+
+  Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit,
+  Which he straitways put on without longer dispute;
+  With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd,
+  And it seem'd for to swell him "no" little with pride;
+  For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife?
+  Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.
+
+  From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace
+  Did observe his behaviour in every case.
+  To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait,
+  Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great:
+  Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view,
+  With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew.
+
+  A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests,
+  He was plac'd at the table above all the rest,
+  In a rich chair "or bed," lin'd with fine crimson red,
+  With a rich golden canopy over his head:
+  As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet,
+  With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.
+
+  While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine,
+  Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine.
+  Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl,
+  Till at last he began for to tumble and roul
+  From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,
+  Being seven times drunker than ever before.
+
+  Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain,
+  And restore him his old leather garments again:
+  'T was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must,
+  And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first;
+  There he slept all the night, as indeed well he might;
+  But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.
+
+  For his glory "to him" so pleasant did seem,
+  That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream;
+  Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought
+  For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought;
+  But his highness he said, Thou 'rt a jolly bold blade,
+  Such a frolick before I think never was plaid.
+
+  Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak,
+  Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak;
+  Nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground,
+  Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round,
+  Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend,
+  Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend.
+
+  Then the tinker reply'd, What! must Joan my sweet bride
+  Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride?
+  Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command?
+  Then I shall be a squire I well understand:
+  Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace,
+  I was never before in so happy a case.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+THE KNIGHT & SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+
+
+  There was a shepherd's daughter
+    Came tripping on the waye;
+  And there by chance a knighte shee mett,
+    Which caused her to staye.
+
+  Good morrowe to you, beauteous maide,
+    These words pronounced hee:
+  O I shall dye this daye, he sayd,
+    If Ive not my wille of thee.
+
+  The Lord forbid, the maide replyde,
+    That you shold waxe so wode!
+  "But for all that shee could do or saye,
+    He wold not be withstood."
+
+  Sith you have had your wille of mee,
+    And put me to open shame,
+  Now, if you are a courteous knighte,
+    Tell me what is your name?
+
+  Some do call mee Jacke, sweet heart,
+    And some do call mee Jille;
+  But when I come to the kings faire courte
+    They call me Wilfulle Wille.
+
+  He sett his foot into the stirrup,
+    And awaye then he did ride;
+  She tuckt her girdle about her middle,
+    And ranne close by his side.
+
+  But when she came to the brode water,
+    She sett her brest and swamme;
+  And when she was got out againe,
+    She tooke to her heels and ranne.
+
+  He never was the courteous knighte,
+    To saye, faire maide, will ye ride?
+  "And she was ever too loving a maide
+    To saye, sir knighte abide."
+
+  When she came to the kings faire courte,
+    She knocked at the ring;
+  So readye was the king himself
+    To let this faire maide in.
+
+  Now Christ you save, my gracious liege,
+    Now Christ you save and see,
+  You have a knighte within your courte,
+    This daye hath robbed mee.
+
+  What hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart?
+    Of purple or of pall?
+  Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring
+    From off thy finger small?
+
+  He hath not robbed mee, my liege,
+    Of purple nor of pall:
+  But he hath gotten my maiden head,
+    Which grieves mee worst of all.
+
+  Now if he be a batchelor,
+    His bodye He give to thee;
+  But if he be a married man,
+    High hanged he shall bee.
+
+  He called downe his merrye men all,
+    By one, by two, by three;
+  Sir William used to bee the first,
+    But nowe the last came hee.
+
+  He brought her downe full fortye pounde,
+    Tyed up withinne a glove:
+  Faire maide, He give the same to thee;
+    Go, seeke thee another love.
+
+  O Ile have none of your gold, she sayde,
+    Nor Ile have none of your fee;
+  But your faire bodye I must have,
+    The king hath granted mee.
+
+  Sir William ranne and fetched her then
+    Five hundred pound in golde,
+  Saying, faire maide, take this to thee,
+    Thy fault will never be tolde.
+
+  Tis not the gold that shall mee tempt,
+    These words then answered shee,
+  But your own bodye I must have,
+    The king hath granted mee.
+
+  Would I had dranke the water cleare,
+    When I did drinke the wine,
+  Rather than any shepherds brat
+    Shold bee a ladye of mine!
+
+  Would I had drank the puddle foule,
+    When I did drink the ale,
+  Rather than ever a shepherds brat
+    Shold tell me such a tale!
+
+  A shepherds brat even as I was,
+    You mote have let me bee,
+  I never had come to the kings faire courte,
+    To crave any love of thee.
+
+  He sett her on a milk-white steede,
+    And himself upon a graye;
+  He hung a bugle about his necke,
+    And soe they rode awaye.
+
+  But when they came unto the place,
+    Where marriage-rites were done,
+  She proved herself a dukes daughter,
+    And he but a squires sonne.
+
+  Now marrye me, or not, sir knight,
+    Your pleasure shall be free:
+  If you make me ladye of one good towne,
+    He make you lord of three.
+
+  Ah! cursed bee the gold, he sayd,
+    If thou hadst not been trewe,
+  I shold have forsaken my sweet love,
+    And have changed her for a newe.
+
+  And now their hearts being linked fast,
+    They joyned hand in hande:
+  Thus he had both purse, and person too,
+    And all at his commande.
+
+
+
+
+
+KING ESTMERE
+
+
+  Hearken to me, gentlemen,
+    Come and you shall heare;
+  Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren
+    That ever borne y-were.
+
+  The tone of them was Adler younge,
+    The tother was kyng Estmere;
+  The were as bolde men in their deeds,
+    As any were farr and neare.
+
+  As they were drinking ale and wine
+    Within kyng Estmeres halle:
+  When will ye marry a wyfe, brother,
+    A wyfe to glad us all?
+
+  Then bespake him kyng Estmere,
+    And answered him hastilee:
+  I know not that ladye in any land
+    That's able to marrye with mee.
+
+  Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother,
+    Men call her bright and sheene;
+  If I were kyng here in your stead,
+    That ladye shold be my queene.
+
+  Saies, Reade me, reade me, deare brother,
+    Throughout merry England,
+  Where we might find a messenger
+    Betwixt us towe to sende.
+
+  Saies, You shal ryde yourselfe, brother,
+    Ile beare you companye;
+  Many throughe fals messengers are deceived,
+    And I feare lest soe shold wee.
+
+  Thus the renisht them to ryde
+    Of twoe good renisht steeds,
+  And when the came to kyng Adlands halle,
+    Of redd gold shone their weeds.
+
+  And when the came to kyng Adlands hall
+    Before the goodlye gate,
+  There they found good kyng Adland
+    Rearing himselfe theratt.
+
+  Now Christ thee save, good kyng Adland;
+   Now Christ you save and see.
+  Sayd, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
+   Right hartilye to mee.
+
+  You have a daughter, said Adler younge,
+   Men call her bright and sheene,
+  My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe,
+   Of Englande to be queene.
+
+  Yesterday was att my deere daughter
+   Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne;
+  And then she nicked him of naye,
+   And I doubt sheele do you the same.
+
+  The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim,
+   And 'leeveth on Mahound;
+  And pitye it were that fayre ladye
+   Shold marrye a heathen hound.
+
+  But grant to me, sayes kyng Estmere,
+   For my love I you praye;
+  That I may see your daughter deere
+   Before I goe hence awaye.
+
+  Although itt is seven yeers and more
+   Since my daughter was in halle,
+  She shall come once downe for your sake
+   To glad my guestes alle.
+
+  Downe then came that mayden fayre,
+    With ladyes laced in pall,
+  And halfe a hundred of bold knightes,
+    To bring her from bowre to hall;
+  And as many gentle squiers,
+    To tend upon them all.
+
+  The talents of golde were on her head sette,
+    Hanged low downe to her knee;
+  And everye ring on her small finger
+    Shone of the chrystall free.
+
+  Saies, God you save, my deere madam;
+    Saies, God you save and see.
+  Said, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
+    Right welcome unto mee.
+
+  And if you love me, as you saye,
+    Soe well and hartilye,
+  All that ever you are comin about
+    Sooner sped now itt shal bee.
+
+  Then bespake her father deare:
+    My daughter, I saye naye;
+  Remember well the kyng of Spayne,
+    What he sayd yesterday.
+
+  He wold pull downe my hales and castles,
+     And reeve me of my life.
+  I cannot blame him if he doe,
+     If I reave him of his wyfe.
+
+  Your castles and your towres, father,
+     Are stronglye built aboute;
+  And therefore of the king of Spaine
+     Wee neede not stande in doubt.
+
+  Plight me your troth, nowe, kyng Estmere,
+     By heaven and your righte hand,
+  That you will marrye me to your wyfe,
+     And make me queene of your land.
+
+  Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth
+     By heaven and his righte hand,
+  That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe,
+     And make her queene of his land.
+
+  And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,
+     To goe to his owne countree,
+  To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,
+     That marryed the might bee.
+
+  They had not ridden scant a myle,
+     A myle forthe of the towne,
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
+     With kempes many one.
+
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
+     With manye a bold barone,
+  Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,
+     Tother daye to carrye her home.
+
+  Shee sent one after kyng Estmere
+     In all the spede might bee,
+  That he must either turne againe and fighte,
+     Or goe home and loose his ladye.
+
+  One whyle then the page he went,
+     Another while he ranne;
+  Tull he had oretaken king Estmere,
+      I wis, he never blanne.
+
+  Tydings, tydings, kyng Estmere!
+     What tydinges nowe, my boye?
+  O tydinges I can tell to you,
+     That will you sore annoye.
+
+  You had not ridden scant a mile,
+     A mile out of the towne,
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne
+     With kempes many a one:
+
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne
+     With manye a bold barone,
+  Tone daye to marrye king Adlands daughter,
+     Tother daye to carry her home.
+
+  My ladye fayre she greetes you well,
+   And ever-more well by mee:
+  You must either turne againe and fighte,
+   Or goe home and loose your ladye.
+
+  Saies, Reade me, reade me, deere brother,
+   My reade shall ryde at thee,
+  Whether it is better to turne and fighte,
+   Or goe home and loose my ladye.
+
+  Now hearken to me, sayes Adler yonge,
+   And your reade must rise at me,
+  I quicklye will devise a waye
+   To sette thy ladye free.
+
+  My mother was a westerne woman,
+   And learned in gramarye,
+  And when I learned at the schole,
+   Something she taught itt mee.
+
+  There growes an hearbe within this field,
+   And iff it were but knowne,
+  His color, which is whyte and redd,
+   It will make blacke and browne:
+
+  His color, which is browne and blacke,
+   Itt will make redd and whyte;
+  That sworde is not in all Englande,
+   Upon his coate will byte.
+
+  And you shall be a harper, brother,
+    Out of the north countrye;
+  And He be your boy, soe faine of fighte,
+    And beare your harpe by your knee.
+
+  And you shal be the best harper,
+    That ever tooke harpe in hand;
+  And I wil be the best singer,
+    That ever sung in this lande.
+
+  Itt shal be written on our forheads
+    All and in grammarye,
+  That we towe are the boldest men,
+    That are in all Christentye.
+
+  And thus they renisht them to ryde,
+    On tow good renish steedes;
+  And when they came to king Adlands hall,
+    Of redd gold shone their weedes.
+
+  And whan they came to kyng Adlands hall,
+    Untill the fayre hall yate,
+  There they found a proud porter
+    Rearing himselfe thereatt.
+
+  Sayes, Christ thee save, thou proud porter;
+    Sayes, Christ thee save and see.
+  Nowe you be welcome, sayd the porter,
+    Of whatsoever land ye bee.
+
+  Wee beene harpers, sayd Adler younge,
+    Come out of the northe countrye;
+  Wee beene come hither untill this place,
+    This proud weddinge for to see.
+
+  Sayd, And your color were white and redd,
+    As it is blacke and browne,
+  I wold saye king Estmere and his brother,
+    Were comen untill this towne.
+
+  Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,
+    Layd itt on the porters arme:
+  And ever we will thee, proud porter,
+    Thow wilt saye us no harme.
+
+  Sore he looked on king Estmere,
+    And sore he handled the ryng,
+  Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,
+    He lett for no kind of thyng.
+
+  King Estmere he stabled his steede
+    Soe fayre att the hall bord;
+  The froth, that came from his brydle bitte,
+    Light in kyng Bremors beard.
+
+  Saies, Stable thy steed, thou proud harper,
+    Saies, Stable him in the stalle;
+  It doth not beseeme a proud harper
+    To stable 'him' in a kyngs halle.
+
+  My ladde he is no lither, he said,
+    He will doe nought that's meete;
+  And is there any man in this hall
+    Were able him to beate
+
+  Thou speakst proud words, sayes the king of Spaine,
+    Thou harper, here to mee:
+  There is a man within this halle
+    Will beate thy ladd and thee.
+
+  O let that man come downe, he said,
+    A sight of him wold I see;
+  And when hee hath beaten well my ladd,
+    Then he shall beate of mee.
+
+  Downe then came the kemperye man,
+    And looketh him in the eare;
+  For all the gold, that was under heaven,
+    He durst not neigh him neare.
+
+  And how nowe, kempe, said the Kyng of Spaine,
+    And how what aileth thee?
+  He saies, It is writt in his forhead
+    All and in gramarye,
+  That for all the gold that is under heaven
+    I dare not neigh him nye.
+
+  Then Kyng Estmere pulld forth his harpe,
+    And plaid a pretty thinge:
+  The ladye upstart from the borde,
+    And wold have gone from the king.
+
+  Stay thy harpe, thou proud harper,
+    For Gods love I pray thee,
+  For and thou playes as thou beginns,
+    Thou'lt till my bryde from mee.
+
+  He stroake upon his harpe againe,
+    And playd a pretty thinge;
+  The ladye lough a loud laughter,
+    As shee sate by the king.
+
+  Saies, Sell me thy harpe, thou proud harper,
+    And thy stringes all,
+  For as many gold nobles 'thou shall have'
+    As heere bee ringes in the hall.
+
+  What wold ye doe with my harpe,' he sayd,'
+    If I did sell itt yee?
+  "To playe my wiffe and me a fitt,
+    When abed together wee bee."
+
+  Now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay,
+    As shee sitts by thy knee,
+  And as many gold nobles I will give,
+    As leaves been on a tree.
+
+  And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay,
+    Iff I did sell her thee?
+  More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye
+    To lye by mee then thee.
+
+  Hee played agayne both loud and shrille,
+    And Adler he did syng,
+  "O ladye, this is thy owne true love;
+    Noe harper, but a kyng.
+
+  "O ladye, this is thy owne true love,
+    As playnlye thou mayest see;
+  And He rid thee of that foule paynim,
+    Who partes thy love and thee."
+
+  The ladye looked, the ladye blushte,
+    And blushte and lookt agayne,
+  While Adler he hath drawne his brande,
+    And hath the Sowdan slayne.
+
+  Up then rose the kemperye men,
+    And loud they gan to crye:
+  Ah; traytors, yee have slayne our kyng,
+    And therefore yee shall dye.
+
+  Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,
+    And swith he drew his brand;
+  And Estmere he, and Adler yonge
+    Right stiffe in slodr can stand.
+
+  And aye their swordes soe sore can byte,
+    Throughe help of Gramarye,
+  That soone they have slayne the kempery men,
+    Or forst them forth to flee.
+
+  Kyng Estmere took that fayre ladye,
+    And marryed her to his wiffe,
+  And brought her home to merry England
+    With her to leade his life.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+
+
+  An ancient story Ile tell you anon
+  Of a notable prince, that was called King John;
+  And he ruled England with maine and with might,
+  For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.
+
+  And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,
+  Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye;
+  How for his house-keeping, and high renowne,
+  They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
+
+  An hundred men, the king did heare say,
+  The abbot kept in his house every day;
+  And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,
+  In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
+
+  How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,
+  Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,
+  And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,
+  I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.
+
+  My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne,
+  I never spend nothing, but what is my owne;
+  And I trust, your grace will doe me no deere,
+  For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.
+
+  Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe,
+  And now for the same thou needest must dye;
+  For except thou canst answer me questions three,
+  Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
+
+  And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead,
+  With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,
+  Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
+  Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
+
+  Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,
+  How soone I may ride the whole world about.
+  And at the third question thou must not shrink,
+  But tell me here truly what I do think.
+
+  O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
+  Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:
+  But if you will give me but three weekes space,
+  Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.
+
+  Now three weeks space to thee will I give,
+  And that is the longest time thou hast to live;
+  For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
+  Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.
+
+  Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,
+  And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;
+  But never a doctor there was so wise,
+  That could with his learning an answer devise.
+
+  Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,
+  And he mett his shepheard a going to fold:
+  How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;
+  What newes do you bring us from good King John?
+
+  "Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give;
+  That I have but three days more to live:
+  For if I do not answer him questions three,
+  My head will be smitten from my bodie.
+
+  The first is to tell him there in that stead,
+  With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,
+  Among all his liege men so noble of birth,
+  To within one penny of all what he is worth.
+
+  The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
+  How soon he may ride this whole world about:
+  And at the third question I must not shrinke,
+  But tell him there truly what he does thinke."
+
+  Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,
+  That a fool he may learn a wise man witt?
+  Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,
+  And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
+
+  Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
+  I am like your lordship, as ever may bee:
+  And if you will but lend me your gowne,
+  There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.
+
+  Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have,
+  With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;
+  With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,
+  Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.
+
+  Now welcome, sire abbott, the king he did say,
+  'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day;
+  For and if thou canst answer my questions three,
+  Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
+
+  And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
+  With my crowne of gold so fair on my head,
+  Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
+  Tell me to one penny what I am worth.
+
+  "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
+  Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told;
+  And twenty nine is the worth of thee,
+  For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,
+  I did not thinke I had been worth so littel!
+  --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,
+  How soon I may ride this whole world about.
+
+  "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
+  Until the next morning he riseth againe;
+  And then your grace need not make any doubt,
+  But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
+  I did not think, it could be gone so soone!
+  --Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,
+  But tell me here truly what I do thinke.
+
+  "Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:
+  You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbury;
+  But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
+  That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
+  He make thee lord abbot this day in his place!
+  "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
+  For alacke I can neither write ne reade."
+
+  Four nobles a weeke, then I will give thee,
+  For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee;
+  And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,
+  Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.
+
+
+
+
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+
+
+  In Scarlet towne where I was borne,
+    There was a faire maid dwellin,
+  Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye!
+    Her name was Barbara Allen.
+
+  All in the merrye month of May,
+    When greene buds they were swellin,
+  Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,
+    For love of Barbara Allen.
+
+  He sent his man unto her then,
+    To the town where shee was dwellin;
+  You must come to my master deare,
+    Giff your name be Barbara Alien.
+
+  For death is printed on his face,
+    And ore his harte is stealin:
+  Then haste away to comfort him,
+    O lovelye Barbara Alien.
+
+  Though death be printed on his face,
+    And ore his harte is stealin,
+  Yet little better shall he bee
+    For bonny Barbara Alien.
+
+  So slowly, slowly, she came up,
+    And slowly she came nye him;
+  And all she sayd, when there she came,
+    Yong man, I think y'are dying.
+
+  He turned his face unto her strait,
+    With deadlye sorrow sighing;
+  O lovely maid, come pity mee,
+    Ime on my death-bed lying.
+
+  If on your death-bed you doe lye,
+    What needs the tale you are tellin;
+  I cannot keep you from your death;
+    Farewell, sayd Barbara Alien.
+
+  He turned his face unto the wall,
+    As deadlye pangs he fell in:
+  Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all,
+    Adieu to Barbara Allen.
+
+  As she was walking ore the fields,
+    She heard the bell a knellin;
+  And every stroke did seem to saye,
+    Unworthye Barbara Allen.
+
+  She turned her bodye round about,
+    And spied the corps a coming:
+  Laye down, lay down the corps, she sayd,
+    That I may look upon him.
+
+  With scornful eye she looked downe,
+    Her cheeke with laughter swellin;
+  Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine,
+    Unworthye Barbara Allen.
+
+  When he was dead, and laid in grave,
+    Her harte was struck with sorrowe,
+  O mother, mother, make my bed,
+    For I shall dye to-morrowe.
+
+  Hard-harted creature him to slight,
+    Who loved me so dearlye:
+  O that I had beene more kind to him
+    When he was alive and neare me!
+
+  She, on her death-bed as she laye,
+    Beg'd to be buried by him;
+  And sore repented of the daye,
+    That she did ere denye him.
+
+  Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all,
+    And shun the fault I fell in:
+  Henceforth take warning by the fall
+    Of cruel Barbara Allen.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+
+
+  When as King Henry rulde this land,
+    The second of that name,
+  Besides the queene, he dearly lovde
+    A faire and comely dame.
+
+  Most peerlesse was her beautye founde,
+    Her favour, and her face;
+  A sweeter creature in this worlde
+    Could never prince embrace.
+
+  Her crisped lockes like threads of golde
+    Appeard to each mans sight;
+  Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles,
+    Did cast a heavenlye light.
+
+  The blood within her crystal cheekes
+    Did such a colour drive,
+  As though the lillye and the rose
+    For mastership did strive.
+
+  Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde,
+    Her name was called so,
+  To whom our queene, dame Ellinor,
+    Was known a deadlye foe.
+
+  The king therefore, for her defence,
+    Against the furious queene,
+  At Woodstocke builded such a bower,
+    The like was never scene.
+
+  Most curiously that bower was built
+    Of stone and timber strong,
+  An hundred and fifty doors
+   Did to this bower belong:
+
+  And they so cunninglye contriv'd
+    With turnings round about,
+  That none but with a clue of thread,
+    Could enter in or out.
+
+  And for his love and ladyes sake,
+    That was so faire and brighte,
+  The keeping of this bower he gave
+    Unto a valiant knighte.
+
+  But fortune, that doth often frowne
+    Where she before did smile,
+  The kinges delighte and ladyes so
+    Full soon shee did beguile:
+
+  For why, the kinges ungracious sonne,
+    Whom he did high advance,
+  Against his father raised warres
+    Within the realme of France.
+
+  But yet before our comelye king
+    The English land forsooke,
+  Of Rosamond, his lady faire,
+    His farewelle thus he tooke:
+
+  "My Rosamonde, my only Rose,
+    That pleasest best mine eye:
+  The fairest flower in all the worlde
+    To feed my fantasye:
+
+  The flower of mine affected heart,
+    Whose sweetness doth excelle:
+  My royal Rose, a thousand times
+    I bid thee nowe farwelle!
+
+  For I must leave my fairest flower,
+    My sweetest Rose, a space,
+  And cross the seas to famous France,
+    Proud rebelles to abase.
+
+  But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt
+    My coming shortlye see,
+  And in my heart, when hence I am,
+    Ile beare my Rose with mee."
+
+  When Rosamond, that ladye brighte,
+    Did heare the king saye soe,
+  The sorrowe of her grieved heart
+    Her outward lookes did showe;
+
+  And from her cleare and crystall eyes
+    The teares gusht out apace,
+  Which like the silver-pearled dewe
+    Ranne downe her comely face.
+
+  Her lippes, erst like the corall redde,
+    Did waxe both wan and pale,
+  And for the sorrow she conceivde
+    Her vitall spirits faile;
+
+  And falling down all in a swoone
+    Before King Henryes face,
+  Full oft he in his princelye armes
+    Her bodye did embrace:
+
+  And twentye times, with watery eyes,
+    He kist her tender cheeke,
+  Untill he had revivde againe
+    Her senses milde and meeke.
+
+  Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?
+    The king did often say.
+  Because, quoth shee, to bloodye warres
+    My lord must part awaye.
+
+  But since your grace on forrayne coastes
+    Amonge your foes unkinde
+  Must goe to hazard life and limbe,
+    Why should I staye behinde?
+
+  Nay rather, let me, like a page,
+    Your sworde and target beare;
+  That on my breast the blowes may lighte,
+    Which would offend you there.
+
+  Or lett mee, in your royal tent,
+    Prepare your bed at nighte,
+  And with sweete baths refresh your grace,
+    Ar your returne from fighte.
+
+  So I your presence may enjoye
+    No toil I will refuse;
+  But wanting you, my life is death;
+    Nay, death Ild rather chuse!
+
+  "Content thy self, my dearest love;
+    Thy rest at home shall bee
+  In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle;
+    For travell fits not thee.
+
+  Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres;
+    Soft peace their sexe delights;
+  Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers;
+    Gay feastes, not cruell fights.'
+
+  My Rose shall safely here abide,
+    With musicke passe the daye;
+  Whilst I, amonge the piercing pikes,
+    My foes seeke far awaye.
+
+  My Rose shall shine in pearle, and golde,
+    Whilst Ime in armour dighte;
+  Gay galliards here my love shall dance,
+    Whilst I my foes goe fighte.
+
+  And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste
+    To bee my loves defence;
+  Be careful of my gallant Rose
+    When I am parted hence."
+
+  And therewithall he fetcht a sigh,
+    As though his heart would breake:
+  And Rosamonde, for very grief,
+    Not one plaine word could speake.
+
+  And at their parting well they mighte
+    In heart be grieved sore:
+  After that daye faire Rosamonde
+    The king did see no more.
+
+  For when his grace had past the seas,
+    And into France was gone;
+  With envious heart, Queene Ellinor,
+    To Woodstocke came anone.
+
+  And forth she calls this trustye knighte,
+    In an unhappy houre;
+  Who with his clue of twined thread,
+    Came from this famous bower.
+
+  And when that they had wounded him,
+    The queene this thread did gette,
+  And went where Ladye Rosamonde
+    Was like an angell sette.
+
+  But when the queene with stedfast eye
+    Beheld her beauteous face,
+  She was amazed in her minde
+    At her exceeding grace.
+
+  Cast off from thee those robes, she said,
+    That riche and costlye bee;
+  And drinke thou up this deadlye draught,
+    Which I have brought to thee.
+
+  Then presentlye upon her knees
+    Sweet Rosamonde did fall;
+  And pardon of the queene she crav'd
+    For her offences all.
+
+  "Take pitty on my youthfull yeares,"
+    Faire Rosamonde did crye;
+  "And lett mee not with poison stronge
+    Enforced bee to dye.
+
+  I will renounce my sinfull life,
+    And in some cloyster bide;
+  Or else be banisht, if you please,
+    To range the world soe wide.
+
+  And for the fault which I have done,
+    Though I was forc'd thereto,
+  Preserve my life, and punish mee
+    As you thinke meet to doe."
+
+  And with these words, her lillie handes
+    She wrunge full often there;
+  And downe along her lovely face
+    Did trickle many a teare.
+
+  But nothing could this furious queene
+    Therewith appeased bee;
+  The cup of deadlye poyson stronge,
+    As she knelt on her knee,
+
+  Shee gave this comelye dame to drinke;
+    Who tooke it in her hand,
+  And from her bended knee arose,
+    And on her feet did stand:
+
+  And casting up her eyes to heaven,
+    She did for mercye calle;
+  And drinking up the poison stronge,
+    Her life she lost withalle.
+
+  And when that death through everye limbe
+    Had showde its greatest spite,
+  Her chiefest foes did plaine confesse
+    Shee was a glorious wight.
+
+  Her body then they did entomb,
+    When life was fled away,
+  At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne,
+    As may be scene this day.
+
+
+
+
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+
+
+  When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre,
+    And leaves both large and longe,
+  Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrest
+    To heare the small birdes songe.
+
+  The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
+    Sitting upon the spraye,
+  Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,
+    In the greenwood where he lay.
+
+  Now by my faye, sayd jollye Robin,
+    A sweaven I had this night;
+  I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen,
+    That fast with me can fight.
+
+  Methought they did mee beate and binde,
+    And tooke my bow mee froe;
+  If I be Robin alive in this lande,
+    He be wroken on them towe.
+
+  Sweavens are swift, Master, quoth John,
+    As the wind that blowes ore a hill;
+  For if itt be never so loude this night,
+    To-morrow itt may be still.
+
+  Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
+    And John shall goe with mee,
+  For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen,
+    In greenwood where the bee.
+
+  Then the cast on their gownes of grene,
+    And tooke theyr bowes each one;
+  And they away to the greene forrest
+    A shooting forth are gone;
+
+  Until they came to the merry greenwood,
+    Where they had gladdest bee,
+  There were the ware of a wight yeoman,
+    His body leaned to a tree.
+
+  A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
+    Of manye a man the bane;
+  And he was clad in his capull hyde
+    Topp and tayll and mayne.
+
+  Stand you still, master, quoth Litle John,
+    Under this tree so grene,
+  And I will go to yond wight yeoman
+    To know what he doth meane.
+
+  Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,
+    And that I farley finde:
+  How offt send I my men beffore
+    And tarry my selfe behinde?
+
+  It is no cunning a knave to ken,
+    And a man but heare him speake;
+  And itt were not for bursting of my bowe.
+    John, I thy head wold breake.
+
+  As often wordes they breeden bale,
+    So they parted Robin and John;
+  And John is gone to Barnesdale;
+    The gates he knoweth eche one.
+
+  But when he came to Barnesdale,
+    Great heavinesse there hee hadd,
+  For he found tow of his owne fellowes
+    Were slaine both in a slade.
+
+  And Scarlette he was flyinge a-foote
+    Fast over stocke and stone,
+  For the sheriffe with seven score men
+    Fast after him is gone.
+
+  One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John,
+    With Christ his might and mayne:
+  Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast,
+    To stopp he shall be fayne.
+
+  Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,
+    And fetteled him to shoote:
+  The bow was made of a tender boughe,
+    And fell down to his foote.
+
+  Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
+    That ere thou grew on a tree;
+  For now this day thou art my bale,
+    My boote when thou shold bee.
+
+  His shoote it was but loosely shott,
+    Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
+  For itt mett one of the sheriffes men,
+    Good William a Trent was slaine.
+
+  It had bene better of William a Trent
+    To have bene abed with sorrowe,
+  Than to be that day in the green wood slade
+    To meet with Little Johns arrowe.
+
+  But as it is said, when men be mett
+    Fyve can doe more than three,
+  The sheriffe hath taken little John,
+    And bound him fast to a tree.
+
+  Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,
+    And hanged hye on a hill.
+  But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John,
+    If itt be Christ his will.
+
+  Let us leave talking of Little John,
+    And thinke of Robin Hood,
+  How he is gone to the wight yeoman,
+    Where under the leaves he stood.
+
+  Good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre,
+    Good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he:
+   Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande
+    A good archere thou sholdst bee.
+
+  I am wilfull of my waye, quo' the yeman,
+    And of my morning tyde.
+  He lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin;
+    Good fellow, He be thy guide.
+
+  I seeke an outlawe, the straunger sayd,
+    Men call him Robin Hood;
+  Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe,
+    Than fortye pound so good.
+
+  Now come with me, thou wighty yeman,
+    And Robin thou soone shalt see:
+  But first let us some pastime find
+    Under the greenwood tree.
+
+  First let us some masterye make
+    Among the woods so even,
+  Wee may chance to meet with Robin Hood
+    Here att some unsett steven.
+
+  They cut them downe two summer shroggs,
+    That grew both under a breere,
+  And sett them threescore rood in twaine
+    To shoot the prickes y-fere:
+
+  Lead on, good fellowe, quoth Robin Hood,
+    Lead on, I doe bidd thee.
+  Nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,
+    My leader thou shalt bee.
+
+  The first time Robin shot at the pricke,
+    He mist but an inch it froe:
+  The yeoman he was an archer good,
+    But he cold never shoote soe.
+
+  The second shoote had the wightye yeman,
+    He shote within the garlande:
+  But Robin he shott far better than hee,
+    For he clave the good pricke wande.
+
+  A blessing upon thy heart, he sayd;
+    Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode;
+  For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,
+    Thou wert better then Robin Hoode.
+
+  Now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he,
+    Under the leaves of lyne.
+  Nay by my faith, quoth bolde Robin,
+    Till thou have told me thine.
+
+  I dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee,
+    And Robin to take Ime sworne;
+  And when I am called by my right name
+    I am Guye of good Gisborne.
+
+  My dwelling is in this wood, sayes Robin,
+    By thee I set right nought:
+  I am Robin Hood of Barnesdale,
+    Whom thou so long hast sought.
+
+  He that hath neither beene kithe nor kin,
+    Might have scene a full fayre sight,
+  To see how together these yeomen went
+    With blades both browne and bright.
+
+  To see how these yeomen together they fought
+    Two howres of a summers day:
+  Yet neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy
+    Them fettled to flye away.
+
+  Robin was reachles on a roote,
+    And stumbled at that tyde;
+  And Guy was quick and nimble with-all,
+    And hitt him ore the left side.
+
+  Ah deere Lady, sayd Robin Hood, 'thou
+    That art both mother and may,'
+  I think it was never mans destinye
+    To dye before his day.
+
+  Robin thought on our ladye deere,
+    And soone leapt up againe,
+  And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke,
+    And he Sir Guy hath slayne.
+
+  He took Sir Guys head by the hayre,
+    And sticked itt on his bowes end:
+  Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe,
+    Which thing must have an ende.
+
+  Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,
+    And nicked Sir Guy in the face,
+  That he was never on woman born,
+    Cold tell whose head it was.
+
+  Saies, Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guye,
+    And with me be not wrothe,
+  If thou have had the worst stroked at my hand,
+    Thou shalt have the better clothe.
+
+  Robin did off his gowne of greene,
+    And on Sir Guy did it throwe,
+  And hee put on that capull hyde,
+    That cladd him topp to toe.
+
+  The bowe, the arrowes, and litle home,
+    Now with me I will beare;
+  For I will away to Barnesdale,
+    To see how my men doe fare.
+
+  Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth.
+    And a loud blast in it did blow.
+  That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
+    As he leaned under a lowe.
+
+  Hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe,
+    I heare now tydings good,
+  For yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blowe,
+    And he hath slaine Robin Hoode.
+
+  Yonder I heare Sir Guyes home blowe,
+    Itt blowes soe well in tyde,
+  And yonder comes that wightye yeoman,
+    Cladd in his capull hyde.
+
+  Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy,
+    Aske what thou wilt of mee.
+  O I will none of thy gold, sayd Robin,
+    Nor I will none of thy fee:
+
+  But now I have slaine the master, he sayes,
+    Let me go strike the knave;
+  This is all the rewarde I aske;
+    Nor noe other will I have.
+
+  Thou art a madman, said the sheriffe,
+    Thou sholdest have had a knights fee:
+  But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,
+    Well granted it shale be.
+
+  When Litle John heard his master speake,
+    Well knewe he it was his steven:
+  Now shall I be looset, quoth Litle John,
+    With Christ his might in heaven.
+
+  Fast Robin hee hyed him to Litle John,
+    He thought to loose him belive;
+  The sheriffe and all his companye
+    Fast after him did drive.
+  Stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd Robin;
+    Why draw you mee soe neere?
+  Itt was never the use in our countrye,
+    Ones shrift another shold heere.
+
+  But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe,
+    And losed John hand and foote,
+  And gave him Sir Guyes bow into his hand,
+    And bade it be his boote.
+
+  Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand,
+    His boltes and arrowes eche one:
+  When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,
+    He fettled him to be gone.
+
+  Towards his house in Nottingham towne
+    He fled full fast away;
+  And soe did all his companye:
+    Not one behind wold stay.
+
+  But he cold neither runne soe fast,
+    Nor away soe fast cold ryde,
+  But Litle John with an arrowe soe broad
+    He shott him into the 'back'-syde.
+
+
+
+
+THE BOY & THE MANTLE
+
+[Illustration: Boy and Mantle]
+
+  In Carleile dwelt King Arthur,
+    A prince of passing might;
+  And there maintain'd his table round,
+    Beset with many a knight.
+
+  And there he kept his Christmas
+    With mirth and princely cheare,
+  When, lo! a straunge and cunning boy
+    Before him did appeare.
+
+  A kirtle and a mantle
+    This boy had him upon,
+  With brooches, rings, and owches,
+    Full daintily bedone.
+
+  He had a sarke of silk
+    About his middle meet;
+  And thus, with seemely curtesy,
+    He did King Arthur greet.
+
+  "God speed thee, brave King Arthur,
+    Thus feasting in thy bowre;
+  And Guenever thy goodly queen,
+    That fair and peerlesse flowre.
+
+  "Ye gallant lords, and lordings,
+    I wish you all take heed,
+  Lest, what ye deem a blooming rose,
+    Should prove a cankred weed."
+
+  Then straitway from his bosome
+    A little wand he drew;
+  And with it eke a mantle
+    Of wondrous shape and hew.
+
+  "Now have you here, King Arthur,
+   Have this here of mee,
+  And give unto thy comely queen,
+   All-shapen as you see.
+
+  "No wife it shall become,
+    That once hath been to blame."
+  Then every knight in Arthur's court
+    Slye glaunced at his dame.
+
+  And first came Lady Guenever,
+    The mantle she must trye.
+  This dame, she was new-fangled,
+    And of a roving eye.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    And all was with it cladde,
+  From top to toe it shiver'd down,
+    As tho' with sheers beshradde.
+
+  One while it was too long,
+    Another while too short,
+  And wrinkled on her shoulders
+    In most unseemly sort.
+
+  Now green, now red it seemed,
+    Then all of sable hue.
+  "Beshrew me," quoth King Arthur,
+    "I think thou beest not true."
+
+  Down she threw the mantle,
+    Ne longer would not stay;
+  But, storming like a fury,
+    To her chamber flung away.
+
+  She curst the whoreson weaver,
+    That had the mantle wrought:
+  And doubly curst the froward impe,
+    Who thither had it brought.
+
+  "I had rather live in desarts
+    Beneath the green-wood tree;
+  Than here, base king, among thy groomes,
+    The sport of them and thee."
+
+  Sir Kay call'd forth his lady,
+    And bade her to come near:
+  "Yet, dame, if thou be guilty,
+    I pray thee now forbear."
+
+  This lady, pertly gigling,
+    With forward step came on,
+  And boldly to the little boy
+    With fearless face is gone.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    With purpose for to wear;
+  It shrunk up to her shoulder,
+    And left her b--- side bare.
+
+  Then every merry knight,
+    That was in Arthur's court,
+  Gib'd, and laught, and flouted,
+    To see that pleasant sport.
+
+  Downe she threw the mantle,
+    No longer bold or gay,
+  But with a face all pale and wan,
+    To her chamber slunk away.
+
+  Then forth came an old knight,
+    A pattering o'er his creed;
+  And proffer'd to the little boy
+    Five nobles to his meed;
+
+  "And all the time of Christmass
+    Plumb-porridge shall be thine,
+  If thou wilt let my lady fair
+    Within the mantle shine."
+
+  A saint his lady seemed,
+    With step demure and slow,
+  And gravely to the mantle
+    With mincing pace doth goe.
+
+  When she the same had taken,
+    That was so fine and thin,
+  It shrivell'd all about her,
+    And show'd her dainty skin.
+
+  Ah! little did HER mincing,
+    Or HIS long prayers bestead;
+  She had no more hung on her,
+    Than a tassel and a thread.
+
+  Down she threwe the mantle,
+    With terror and dismay,
+  And, with a face of scarlet,
+    To her chamber hyed away.
+
+  Sir Cradock call'd his lady,
+    And bade her to come neare:
+  "Come, win this mantle, lady,
+    And do me credit here.
+
+  "Come, win this mantle, lady,
+    For now it shall be thine,
+  If thou hast never done amiss,
+    Sith first I made thee mine."
+
+  The lady, gently blushing,
+    With modest grace came on,
+  And now to trye the wondrous charm
+    Courageously is gone.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    And put it on her backe,
+  About the hem it seemed
+    To wrinkle and to cracke.
+
+  "Lye still," shee cryed, "O mantle!
+    And shame me not for nought,
+  I'll freely own whate'er amiss,
+    Or blameful I have wrought.
+
+  "Once I kist Sir Cradocke
+    Beneathe the green-wood tree:
+  Once I kist Sir Cradocke's mouth
+    Before he married mee."
+
+  When thus she had her shriven,
+    And her worst fault had told,
+  The mantle soon became her
+    Right comely as it shold.
+
+  Most rich and fair of colour,
+    Like gold it glittering shone:
+  And much the knights in Arthur's court
+    Admir'd her every one.
+
+  Then towards King Arthur's table
+    The boy he turn'd his eye:
+  Where stood a boar's head garnished
+    With bayes and rosemarye.
+
+  When thrice he o'er the boar's head
+    His little wand had drawne,
+  Quoth he, "There's never a cuckold's knife
+    Can carve this head of brawne."
+
+  Then some their whittles rubbed
+    On whetstone, and on hone:
+  Some threwe them under the table,
+    And swore that they had none.
+
+  Sir Cradock had a little knife,
+    Of steel and iron made;
+  And in an instant thro' the skull
+    He thrust the shining blade.
+
+  He thrust the shining blade
+    Full easily and fast;
+  And every knight in Arthur's court
+    A morsel had to taste.
+
+  The boy brought forth a horne,
+    All golden was the rim:
+  Saith he, "No cuckolde ever can
+    Set mouth unto the brim.
+
+  "No cuckold can this little horne
+    Lift fairly to his head;
+  But or on this, or that side,
+    He shall the liquor shed."
+
+  Some shed it on their shoulder,
+    Some shed it on their thigh;
+  And hee that could not hit his mouth,
+    Was sure to hit his eye.
+
+  Thus he, that was a cuckold,
+    Was known of every man:
+  But Cradock lifted easily,
+    And wan the golden can.
+
+  Thus boar's head, horn and mantle,
+    Were this fair couple's meed:
+  And all such constant lovers,
+    God send them well to speed.
+
+  Then down in rage came Guenever,
+    And thus could spightful say,
+  "Sir Cradock's wife most wrongfully
+    Hath borne the prize away.
+
+  "See yonder shameless woman,
+    That makes herselfe so clean:
+  Yet from her pillow taken
+    Thrice five gallants have been.
+
+  "Priests, clarkes, and wedded men,
+    Have her lewd pillow prest:
+  Yet she the wonderous prize forsooth
+    Must beare from all the rest."
+
+  Then bespake the little boy,
+    Who had the same in hold:
+  "Chastize thy wife, King Arthur,
+    Of speech she is too bold:
+
+  "Of speech she is too bold,
+    Of carriage all too free;
+  Sir King, she hath within thy hall
+    A cuckold made of thee.
+
+  "All frolick light and wanton
+    She hath her carriage borne:
+  And given thee for a kingly crown
+    To wear a cuckold's horne."
+
+
+
+
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+
+PART THE FIRST
+
+
+  Lithe and listen, gentlemen,
+    To sing a song I will beginne:
+  It is of a lord of faire Scotland,
+    Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne.
+
+  His father was a right good lord,
+    His mother a lady of high degree;
+  But they, alas! were dead, him froe,
+    And he lov'd keeping companie.
+
+  To spend the daye with merry cheare,
+    To drinke and revell every night,
+  To card and dice from eve to morne,
+    It was, I ween, his hearts delighte.
+
+  To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare,
+    To alwaye spend and never spare,
+  I wott, an' it were the king himselfe,
+    Of gold and fee he mote be bare.
+
+  Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Linne
+    Till all his gold is gone and spent;
+  And he maun sell his landes so broad,
+    His house, and landes, and all his rent.
+
+  His father had a keen stewarde,
+    And John o' the Scales was called hee:
+  But John is become a gentel-man,
+    And John has gott both gold and fee.
+
+  Sayes, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne,
+    Let nought disturb thy merry cheere;
+  Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad,
+    Good store of gold Ile give thee heere,
+
+  My gold is gone, my money is spent;
+    My lande nowe take it unto thee:
+  Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales,
+    And thine for aye my lande shall bee.
+
+  Then John he did him to record draw,
+    And John he cast him a gods-pennie;
+  But for every pounde that John agreed,
+    The lande, I wis, was well worth three.
+
+  He told him the gold upon the borde,
+    He was right glad his land to winne;
+  The gold is thine, the land is mine,
+    And now Ile be the lord of Linne.
+
+  Thus he hath sold his land soe broad,
+    Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne,
+  All but a poore and lonesome lodge,
+    That stood far off in a lonely glenne.
+
+  For soe he to his father hight.
+    My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee,
+  Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad,
+    And thou wilt spend thy gold so free:
+
+  But sweare me nowe upon the roode,
+    That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend;
+  For when all the world doth frown on thee,
+    Thou there shalt find a faithful friend.
+
+  The heire of Linne is full of golde:
+    And come with me, my friends, sayd hee,
+  Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make,
+    And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee.
+
+  They ranted, drank, and merry made,
+    Till all his gold it waxed thinne;
+  And then his friendes they slunk away;
+    They left the unthrifty heire of Linne.
+
+  He had never a penny in his purse,
+    Never a penny left but three,
+  And one was brass, another was lead,
+    And another it was white money.
+
+  Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    Nowe well-aday, and woe is mee,
+  For when I was the lord of Linne,
+    I never wanted gold nor fee.
+
+  But many a trustye friend have I,
+    And why shold I feel dole or care?
+  Ile borrow of them all by turnes,
+    Soe need I not be never bare.
+
+  But one, I wis, was not at home;
+    Another had payd his gold away;
+  Another call'd him thriftless loone,
+    And bade him sharpely wend his way.
+
+  Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    Now well-aday, and woe is me;
+  For when I had my landes so broad,
+    On me they liv'd right merrilee.
+
+  To beg my bread from door to door
+    I wis, it were a brenning shame:
+  To rob and steale it were a sinne:
+    To worke my limbs I cannot frame.
+
+  Now Ile away to lonesome lodge,
+    For there my father bade me wend;
+  When all the world should frown on mee
+    I there shold find a trusty friend.
+
+
+PART THE SECOND
+
+
+  Away then hyed the heire of Linne
+    Oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne,
+  Untill he came to lonesome lodge,
+    That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne.
+
+  He looked up, he looked downe,
+    In hope some comfort for to winne:
+  But bare and lothly were the walles.
+    Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne.
+
+  The little windowe dim and darke
+    Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe;
+  No shimmering sunn here ever shone;
+    No halesome breeze here ever blew.
+
+  No chair, ne table he mote spye,
+    No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed,
+  Nought save a rope with renning noose,
+    That dangling hung up o'er his head.
+
+  And over it in broad letters,
+    These words were written so plain to see:
+  "Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all,
+    And brought thyselfe to penurie?
+
+  "All this my boding mind misgave,
+    I therefore left this trusty friend:
+  Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace,
+    And all thy shame and sorrows end."
+
+  Sorely shent wi' this rebuke,
+    Sorely shent was the heire of Linne,
+  His heart, I wis, was near to brast     With guilt and sorrowe, shame
+and sinne.
+
+  Never a word spake the heire of Linne,
+    Never a word he spake but three:
+  "This is a trusty friend indeed,
+    And is right welcome unto mee."
+
+  Then round his necke the corde he drewe,
+    And sprung aloft with his bodie:
+  When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine,
+    And to the ground came tumbling hee.
+
+  Astonyed lay the heire of Linne,
+    Ne knewe if he were live or dead:
+  At length he looked, and saw a bille,
+    And in it a key of gold so redd.
+
+  He took the bill, and lookt it on,
+    Strait good comfort found he there:
+  It told him of a hole in the wall,
+    In which there stood three chests in-fere.
+
+  Two were full of the beaten golde,
+   The third was full of white money;
+  And over them in broad letters
+   These words were written so plaine to see:
+
+  "Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere;
+   Amend thy life and follies past;
+  For but thou amend thee of thy life,
+   That rope must be thy end at last."
+
+  And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne;
+   And let it bee, but if I amend:
+  For here I will make mine avow,
+   This reade shall guide me to the end.
+
+  Away then went with a merry cheare,
+   Away then went the heire of Linne;
+  I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne,
+   Till John o' the Scales house he did winne.
+
+  And when he came to John o' the Scales,
+   Upp at the speere then looked hee;
+  There sate three lords upon a rowe,
+   Were drinking of the wine so free.
+
+  And John himself sate at the bord-head,
+   Because now lord of Linne was hee.
+  I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales,
+   One forty pence for to lend mee.
+
+  Away, away, thou thriftless loone;
+    Away, away, this may not bee:
+  For Christs curse on my head, he sayd,
+    If ever I trust thee one pennie.
+
+  Then bespake the heire of Linne,
+    To John o' the Scales wife then spake he:
+  Madame, some almes on me bestowe,
+    I pray for sweet Saint Charitie.
+
+  Away, away, thou thriftless loone,
+    I swear thou gettest no almes of mee;
+  For if we shold hang any losel heere,
+    The first we wold begin with thee.
+
+  Then bespake a good fellowe,
+    Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord
+  Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne;
+    Some time thou wast a well good lord;
+
+  Some time a good fellow thou hast been,
+    And sparedst not thy gold nor fee;
+  Therefore He lend thee forty pence,
+    And other forty if need bee.
+
+  And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales,
+    To let him sit in thy companie:
+  For well I wot thou hadst his land,
+    And a good bargain it was to thee.
+
+  Up then spake him John o' the Scales,
+    All wood he answer'd him againe:
+  Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd,
+    But I did lose by that bargaine.
+
+  And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne,
+    Before these lords so faire and free,
+  Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape,
+    By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.
+
+  I draw you to record, lords, he said.
+    With that he cast him a gods pennie:
+  Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    And here, good John, is thy money.
+
+  And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold,
+    And layd them down upon the bord:
+  All woe begone was John o' the Scales,
+    Soe shent he cold say never a word.
+
+  He told him forth the good red gold,
+    He told it forth with mickle dinne.
+  The gold is thine, the land is mine,
+    And now Ime againe the lord of Linne.
+
+  Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellowe,
+    Forty pence thou didst lend me:
+  Now I am againe the lord of Linne,
+    And forty pounds I will give thee.
+
+  He make the keeper of my forrest,
+    Both of the wild deere and the tame;
+  For but I reward thy bounteous heart,
+    I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.
+
+  Now welladay! sayth Joan o' the Scales:
+    Now welladay! and woe is my life!
+  Yesterday I was lady of Linne,
+    Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife.
+
+  Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne;
+    Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee:
+  Christs curse light on me, if ever again
+    I bring my lands in jeopardy.
+
+
+
+
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+
+
+  I Read that once in Affrica
+    A princely wight did raine,
+  Who had to name Cophetua,
+    As poets they did faine:
+  From natures lawes he did decline,
+  For sure he was not of my mind.
+  He cared not for women-kinde,
+    But did them all disdaine.
+  But, marke, what hapened on a day,
+  As he out of his window lay,
+  He saw a beggar all in gray,
+    The which did cause his paine.
+
+  The blinded boy, that shootes so trim,
+    From heaven downe did hie;
+  He drew a dart and shot at him,
+    In place where he did lye:
+  Which soone did pierse him to the quicke.
+  And when he felt the arrow pricke,
+  Which in his tender heart did sticke,
+    He looketh as he would dye.
+  What sudden chance is this, quoth he,
+  That I to love must subject be,
+  Which never thereto would agree,
+    But still did it defie?
+
+  Then from the window he did come,
+    And laid him on his bed,
+  A thousand heapes of care did runne
+    Within his troubled head:
+  For now he meanes to crave her love,
+  And now he seekes which way to proove
+  How he his fancie might remoove,
+    And not this beggar wed.
+  But Cupid had him so in snare,
+  That this poor begger must prepare
+  A salve to cure him of his care,
+    Or els he would be dead.
+
+  And, as he musing thus did lye,
+    He thought for to devise
+  How he might have her companye,
+    That so did 'maze his eyes.
+  In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life;
+  For surely thou shalt be my wife,
+  Or else this hand with bloody knife
+    The Gods shall sure suffice.
+  Then from his bed he soon arose,
+  And to his pallace gate he goes;
+  Full little then this begger knowes
+    When she the king espies.
+
+  The Gods preserve your majesty,
+    The beggers all gan cry:
+  Vouchsafe to give your charity
+    Our childrens food to buy.
+  The king to them his pursse did cast,
+    And they to part it made great haste;
+  This silly woman was the last
+    That after them did hye.
+  The king he cal'd her back againe,
+  And unto her he gave his chaine;
+  And said, With us you shal remaine
+    Till such time as we dye:
+
+  For thou, quoth he, shalt be my wife,
+    And honoured for my queene;
+  With thee I meane to lead my life,
+    As shortly shall be seene:
+  Our wedding shall appointed be,
+  And every thing in its degree:
+  Come on, quoth he, and follow me,
+    Thou shalt go shift thee cleane.
+  What is thy name, faire maid? quoth he.
+  Penelophon, O king, quoth she;
+  With that she made a lowe courtsey;
+    A trim one as I weene.
+
+  Thus hand in hand along they walke
+    Unto the king's pallace:
+  The king with curteous comly talke
+    This beggar doth imbrace:
+  The begger blusheth scarlet red,
+  And straight againe as pale as lead,
+  But not a word at all she said,
+    She was in such amaze.
+  At last she spake with trembling voyce,
+  And said, O king, I doe rejoyce
+  That you wil take me from your choyce,
+    And my degree's so base.
+
+  And when the wedding day was come,
+    The king commanded strait
+  The noblemen both all and some
+    Upon the queene to wait.
+  And she behaved herself that day,
+  As if she had never walkt the way;
+  She had forgot her gown of gray,
+    Which she did weare of late.
+  The proverbe old is come to passe,
+  The priest, when he begins his masse,
+  Forgets that ever clerke he was;
+    He knowth not his estate.
+
+  Here you may read, Cophetua,
+    Though long time fancie-fed,
+  Compelled by the blinded boy
+    The begger for to wed:
+  He that did lovers lookes disdaine,
+  To do the same was glad and faine,
+  Or else he would himselfe have slaine,
+  In storie, as we read.
+    Disdaine no whit, O lady deere,
+    But pitty now thy servant heere,
+    Least that it hap to thee this yeare,
+      As to that king it did.
+
+  And thus they led a quiet life
+    Duringe their princely raigne;
+  And in a tombe were buried both,
+    As writers sheweth plaine.
+  The lords they tooke it grievously,
+  The ladies tooke it heavily,
+  The commons cryed pitiously,
+    Their death to them was paine,
+    Their fame did sound so passingly,
+    That it did pierce the starry sky,
+    And throughout all the world did flye
+      To every princes realme.
+
+[Illustration:  Decorative ]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+
+
+  'When Flora with her fragrant flowers
+    Bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye,
+  And Neptune with his daintye showers
+    Came to present the monthe of Maye;'
+  King Henrye rode to take the ayre,
+    Over the river of Thames past hee;
+  When eighty merchants of London came,
+    And downe they knelt upon their knee.
+
+  "O yee are welcome, rich merchants;
+    Good saylors, welcome unto mee."
+  They swore by the rood, they were saylors good,
+    But rich merchants they cold not bee:
+  "To France nor Flanders dare we pass:
+    Nor Bourdeaux voyage dare we fare;
+  And all for a rover that lyes on the seas,
+    Who robbs us of our merchant ware."
+
+  King Henrye frowned, and turned him rounde,
+    And swore by the Lord, that was mickle of might,
+  "I thought he had not beene in the world,
+    Durst have wrought England such unright."
+  The merchants sighed, and said, alas!
+    And thus they did their answer frame,
+  He is a proud Scott, that robbs on the seas,
+    And Sir Andrewe Barton is his name.
+
+  The king lookt over his left shoulder,
+    And an angrye look then looked hee:
+  "Have I never a lorde in all my realme,
+    Will feitch yond tray tor unto me?"
+  Yea, that dare I; Lord Howard sayes;
+    Yea, that dare I with heart and hand;
+  If it please your grace to give me leave,
+    Myselfe wil be the only man.
+
+  Thou art but yong; the kyng replyed:
+    Yond Scott hath numbered manye a yeare.
+  "Trust me, my liege, lie make him quail,
+    Or before my prince I will never appeare."
+  Then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have,
+    And chuse them over my realme so free;
+  Besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes,
+    To guide the great shipp on the sea.
+
+  The first man, that Lord Howard chose,
+    Was the ablest gunner in all the realm,
+  Thoughe he was three score yeeres and ten;
+    Good Peter Simon was his name.
+  Peter, sais hee, I must to the sea,
+    To bring home a traytor live or dead:
+  Before all others I have chosen thee;
+    Of a hundred gunners to be the head.
+
+  If you, my lord, have chosen mee
+    Of a hundred gunners to be the head,
+  Then hang me up on your maine-mast tree,
+    If I misse my marke one shilling bread.
+  My lord then chose a boweman rare,
+    "Whose active hands had gained fame."
+  In Yorkshire was this gentleman borne,
+    And William Horseley was his name.
+
+  Horseley, said he, I must with speede
+    Go seeke a traytor on the sea,
+  And now of a hundred bowemen brave
+    To be the head I have chosen thee.
+  If you, quoth hee, have chosen mee
+    Of a hundred bowemen to be the head
+  On your main-mast He hanged bee,
+    If I miss twelvescore one penny bread.
+
+  With pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold,
+    This noble Howard is gone to the sea;
+  With a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare,
+    Out at Thames mouth sayled he.
+  And days he scant had sayled three,
+    Upon the 'voyage,' he tooke in hand,
+  But there he mett with a noble shipp,
+    And stoutely made itt stay and stand.
+
+  Thou must tell me, Lord Howard said,
+    Now who thou art, and what's thy name;
+  And shewe me where they dwelling is:
+    And whither bound, and whence thou came.
+  My name is Henry Hunt, quoth hee
+    With a heavye heart, and a carefull mind;
+  I and my shipp doe both belong
+    To the Newcastle, that stands upon Tyne.
+
+  Hast thou not heard, nowe, Henrye Hunt,
+    As thou hast sayled by daye and by night,
+  Of a Scottish rover on the seas;
+    Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight!
+  Then ever he sighed, and said alas!
+    With a grieved mind, and well away!
+  But over-well I knowe that wight,
+    I was his prisoner yesterday.
+
+  As I was sayling uppon the sea,
+    A Burdeaux voyage for to fare;
+  To his hach-borde he clasped me,
+    And robd me of all my merchant ware:
+  And mickle debts, God wot, I owe,
+    And every man will have his owne;
+  And I am nowe to London bounde,
+    Of our gracious king to beg a boone.
+
+  That shall not need, Lord Howard sais;
+    Lett me but once that robber see,
+  For every penny tane thee froe
+    It shall be doubled shillings three.
+  Nowe God forefend, the merchant said,
+    That you should seek soe far amisse!
+  God keepe you out of that traitors hands!
+    Full litle ye wott what a man hee is.
+
+  Hee is brasse within, and steele without,
+    With beames on his topcastle stronge;
+  And eighteen pieces of ordinance
+    He carries on each side along:
+  And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight,
+    St. Andrewes crosse that is his guide;
+  His pinnace beareth ninescore men,
+    And fifteen canons on each side.
+
+  Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one;
+    I sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall;
+  He wold overcome them everye one,
+    If once his beames they doe downe fall.
+  This is cold comfort, sais my lord,
+    To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea:
+  Yet He bring him and his ship to shore,
+    Or to Scottland hee shall carrye mee.
+
+
+  Then a noble gunner you must have,
+    And he must aim well with his ee,
+  And sinke his pinnace into the sea,
+    Or else hee never orecome will bee:
+  And if you chance his shipp to borde,
+    This counsel I must give withall,
+  Let no man to his topcastle goe
+    To strive to let his beams downe fall.
+
+
+  And seven pieces of ordinance,
+    I pray your honour lend to mee,
+  On each side of my shipp along,
+    And I will lead you on the sea.
+  A glasse He sett, that may be seene
+    Whether you sail by day or night;
+  And to-morrowe, I sweare, by nine of the clocke
+    You shall meet with Sir Andrewe Barton knight.
+
+
+  THE SECOND PART
+
+
+  The merchant sett my lorde a glasse
+    Soe well apparent in his sight,
+  And on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke,
+    He shewed him Sir Andrewe Barton knight.
+  His hachebord it was 'gilt' with gold,
+    Soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee:
+  Nowe by my faith, Lord Howarde sais,
+    This is a gallant sight to see.
+
+  Take in your ancyents, standards eke,
+    So close that no man may them see;
+  And put me forth a white willowe wand,
+    As merchants use to sayle the sea.
+  But they stirred neither top, nor mast;
+    Stoutly they past Sir Andrew by.
+  What English churles are yonder, he sayd,
+    That can soe little curtesye?
+
+  Now by the roode, three yeares and more
+    I have beene admirall over the sea;
+  And never an English nor Portingall
+    Without my leave can passe this way.
+  Then called he forth his stout pinnace;
+    "Fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee:
+  I sweare by the masse, yon English churles
+    Shall all hang att my maine-mast tree."
+
+  With that the pinnace itt shot off,
+    Full well Lord Howard might it ken;
+  For itt stroke down my lord's fore mast,
+    And killed fourteen of his men.
+  Come hither, Simon, sayes my lord,
+    Looke that thy word be true, thou said;
+  For at my maine-mast thou shalt hang,
+    If thou misse thy marke one shilling bread.
+
+  Simon was old, but his heart itt was bold;
+    His ordinance he laid right lowe;
+  He put in chaine full nine yardes long,
+    With other great shott lesse, and moe;
+  And he lette goe his great gunnes shott:
+    Soe well he settled itt with his ee,
+  The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe,
+    He see his pinnace sunke in the sea.
+
+  And when he saw his pinnace sunke,
+    Lord, how his heart with rage did swell!
+  "Nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon;
+    Ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell."
+  When my lord sawe Sir Andrewe loose,
+    Within his heart he was full faine:
+  "Now spread your ancyents, strike up your drummes,
+    Sound all your trumpetts out amaine."
+
+  Fight on, my men, Sir Andrewe sais,
+    Weale howsoever this geere will sway;
+  Itt is my Lord Admirall of England,
+    Is come to seeke mee on the sea.
+  Simon had a sonne, who shott right well,
+    That did Sir Andrewe mickle scare;
+  In att his decke he gave a shott,
+    Killed threescore of his men of warre.
+
+  Then Henrye Hunt with rigour hott
+    Came bravely on the other side,
+  Soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree,
+    And killed fourscore men beside.
+  Nowe, out alas! Sir Andrewe cryed,
+    What may a man now thinke, or say?
+  Yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee,
+    He was my prisoner yesterday.
+
+  Come hither to me, thou Gordon good,
+    That aye wast readye att my call:
+  I will give thee three hundred markes,
+    If thou wilt let my beames downe fall.
+  Lord Howard hee then calld in haste,
+    "Horseley see thou be true in stead;
+  For thou shalt at the maine-mast hang,
+    If thou misse twelvescore one penny bread."
+
+  Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree,
+    He swarved it with might and maine;
+  But Horseley with a bearing arrowe,
+    Stroke the Gordon through the braine;
+  And he fell unto the haches again,
+    And sore his deadlye wounde did bleed:
+  Then word went through Sir Andrews men,
+    How that the Gordon hee was dead.
+
+  Come hither to mee, James Hambilton,
+    Thou art my only sisters sonne,
+  If thou wilt let my beames downe fall
+    Six hundred nobles thou hast wonne.
+  With that he swarved the maine-mast tree,
+    He swarved it with nimble art;
+  But Horseley with a broad arrowe
+    Pierced the Hambilton thorough the heart:
+
+  And downe he fell upon the deck,
+    That with his blood did streame amaine:
+  Then every Scott cryed, Well-away!
+    Alas! a comelye youth is slaine.
+  All woe begone was Sir Andrew then,
+    With griefe and rage his heart did swell:
+  "Go fetch me forth my armour of proofe,
+    For I will to the topcastle mysell."
+
+  "Goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe;
+    That gilded is with gold soe cleare:
+  God be with my brother John of Barton!
+    Against the Portingalls hee it ware;
+  And when he had on this armour of proofe,
+    He was a gallant sight to see:
+  Ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight,
+    My deere brother, could cope with thee."
+
+  Come hither Horseley, sayes my lord,
+    And looke your shaft that itt goe right,
+  Shoot a good shoote in time of need,
+    And for it thou shalt be made a knight.
+  Ile shoot my best, quoth Horseley then,
+    Your honour shall see, with might and maine;
+  But if I were hanged at your maine-mast,
+    I have now left but arrowes twaine.
+
+  Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree,
+   With right good will he swarved then:
+  Upon his breast did Horseley hitt,
+    But the arrow bounded back agen.
+  Then Horseley spyed a privye place
+    With a perfect eye in a secrette part;
+  Under the spole of his right arme
+    He smote Sir Andrew to the heart.
+
+  "Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes,
+    "A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine;
+  He but lye downe and bleede a while,
+    And then He rise and fight againe.
+  Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes,
+    "And never flinch before the foe;
+  And stand fast by St. Andrewes crosse
+    Until you heare my whistle blowe."
+
+  They never heard his whistle blow--
+    Which made their hearts waxe sore adread:
+  Then Horseley sayd, Aboard, my lord,
+    For well I wott Sir Andrew's dead.
+  They boarded then his noble shipp,
+    They boarded it with might and maine;
+  Eighteen score Scots alive they found,
+    The rest were either maimed or slaine.
+
+  Lord Howard tooke a sword in hand,
+    And off he smote Sir Andrewes head,
+  "I must have left England many a daye,
+    If thou wert alive as thou art dead."
+  He caused his body to be cast
+    Over the hatchboard into the sea,
+  And about his middle three hundred crownes:
+    "Wherever thou land this will bury thee."
+
+  Thus from the warres Lord Howard came,
+    And backe he sayled ore the maine,
+  With mickle joy and triumphing
+    Into Thames mouth he came againe.
+  Lord Howard then a letter wrote,
+    And sealed it with scale and ring;
+  "Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace,
+    As never did subject to a king:
+
+  "Sir Andrewes shipp I bring with mee;
+    A braver shipp was never none:
+  Nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr,
+    Before in England was but one."
+  King Henryes grace with royall cheere
+    Welcomed the noble Howard home,
+  And where, said he, is this rover stout,
+   That I myselfe may give the doome?
+
+  "The rover, he is safe, my liege,
+    Full many a fadom in the sea;
+  If he were alive as he is dead,
+    I must have left England many a day:
+  And your grace may thank four men i' the ship
+    For the victory wee have wonne,
+  These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt,
+    And Peter Simon, and his sonne."
+
+  To Henry Hunt, the king then sayd,
+    In lieu of what was from thee tane,
+  A noble a day now thou shalt have,
+    Sir Andrewes jewels and his chayne.
+  And Horseley thou shalt be a knight,
+    And lands and livings shalt have store;
+  Howard shall be erle Surrye hight,
+    As Howards erst have beene before.
+
+  Nowe, Peter Simon, thou art old,
+    I will maintaine thee and thy sonne:
+  And the men shall have five hundred markes
+    For the good service they have done.
+  Then in came the queene with ladyes fair
+    To see Sir Andrewe Barton knight:
+  They weend that hee were brought on shore,
+    And thought to have seen a gallant sight.
+
+  But when they see his deadlye face,
+    And eyes soe hollow in his head,
+  I wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes,
+    This man were alive as hee is dead:
+  Yett for the manfull part hee playd,
+    Which fought soe well with heart and hand,
+  His men shall have twelvepence a day,
+    Till they come to my brother kings high land.
+
+
+
+
+MAY COLLIN
+
+
+  May Collin ...
+    ... was her father's heir,
+  And she fell in love with a false priest,
+    And she rued it ever mair.
+
+  He followd her butt, he followd her benn,
+    He followd her through the hall,
+  Till she had neither tongue nor teeth
+    Nor lips to say him naw.
+
+  "We'll take the steed out where he is,
+    The gold where eer it be,
+  And we'll away to some unco land,
+    And married we shall be."
+
+  They had not riden a mile, a mile,
+    A mile but barely three,
+  Till they came to a rank river,
+    Was raging like the sea.
+
+  "Light off, light off now, May Collin,
+    It's here that you must die;
+  Here I have drownd seven king's daughters,
+    The eight now you must be.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your gown that's of the green;
+  For it's oer good and oer costly
+    To rot in the sea-stream.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your coat that's of the black;
+  For it's oer good and oer costly
+    To rot in the sea-wreck.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your stays that are well laced;
+  For thei'r oer good and costly
+    In the sea's ground to waste.
+
+  "Cast [off, cast off now, May Collin,]
+    Your sark that's of the holland;
+  For [it's oer good and oer costly]
+    To rot in the sea-bottom."
+
+  "Turn you about now, falsh Mess John,
+    To the green leaf of the tree;
+  It does not fit a mansworn man
+    A naked woman to see."
+
+  He turnd him quickly round about,
+    To the green leaf of the tree;
+  She took him hastly in her arms
+    And flung him in the sea.
+
+  "Now lye you there, you falsh Mess John,
+    My mallasin go with thee!
+  You thought to drown me naked and bare,
+    But take your cloaths with thee,
+  And if there be seven king's daughters there
+    Bear you them company"
+
+  She lap on her milk steed
+    And fast she bent the way,
+  And she was at her father's yate
+    Three long hours or day.
+
+  Up and speaks the wylie parrot,
+    So wylily and slee:
+  "Where is the man now, May Collin,
+    That gaed away wie thee?"
+
+  "Hold your tongue, my wylie parrot,
+    And tell no tales of me,
+  And where I gave a pickle befor
+    It's now I'll give you three."
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+
+
+PART THE FIRST
+
+
+  Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight,
+  He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright;
+  And many a gallant brave suiter had shee,
+  For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee.
+
+  And though shee was of favour most faire,
+  Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre,
+  Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee,
+  Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee.
+
+  Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say,
+  Good father, and mother, let me goe away
+  To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee.
+  This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee.
+
+  Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright,
+  All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night
+  From father and mother alone parted shee;
+  Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee.
+
+  Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow;
+  Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe:
+  With teares shee lamented her hard destinie,
+  So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Shee kept on her journey untill it was day,
+  And went unto Rumford along the hye way;
+  Where at the Queenes armes entertained was shee;
+  Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Shee had not beene there a month to an end,
+  But master and mistress and all was her friend:
+  And every brave gallant, that once did her see,
+  Was straight-way enamoured of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold,
+  And in their songs daylye her love was extold;
+  Her beawtye was blazed in every degree;
+  Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee.
+
+  The young men of Rumford in her had their joy;
+  Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye;
+  And at her commandment still wold they bee;
+  Soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Foure suitors att once unto her did goe;
+  They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe;
+  I wold not wish gentles to marry with mee.
+  Yett ever they honored prettye Bessee.
+
+  The first of them was a gallant young knight,
+  And he came unto her disguisde in the night;
+  The second a gentleman of good degree,
+  Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee.
+
+  A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small,
+  He was the third suiter, and proper withall:
+  Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee,
+  Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee.
+
+  And, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight,
+  Ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight;
+  My hart's so inthralled by thy bewtle,
+  That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee.
+
+  The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with mee,
+  As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee:
+  My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee;
+  And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee.
+
+  Let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say,
+  Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay;
+  My shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee,
+  And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.
+
+  Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus she did say,
+  My father and mother I meane to obey;
+  First gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee,
+  And you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee.
+
+  To every one this answer shee made,
+  Wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd,
+  This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree;  But where dwells thy father,
+my prettye Besse?
+
+  My father, shee said, is soone to be seene:
+  The seely blind beggar of Bednall-greene,
+  That daylye sits begging for charitie,
+  He is the good father of pretty Bessee.
+
+  His markes and his tokens are knowen very well;
+  He alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell:
+  A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee,
+  Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee:
+  Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee:
+  I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree,
+  And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee!
+
+  Why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse,
+  I waighe not true love by the waight of my pursse,
+  And bewtye is bewtye in every degree;
+  Then welcome unto me, my prettye Bessee.
+
+  With thee to thy father forthwith I will goe.
+  Nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe;
+  A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee,
+  Then take thy adew of pretty Bessee.
+
+  But soone after this, by breake of the day,
+  The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away.
+  The younge men of Rumford, as thicke might bee,
+  Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee.
+
+  As swifte as the winde to ryde they were scene,
+  Untill they came neare unto Bednall-greene;
+  And as the knight lighted most courteouslie,
+  They all fought against him for pretty Bessee.
+
+  But rescew came speedilye over the plaine,
+  Or else the young knight for his love had been slaine.
+  This fray being ended, then straitway he see
+  His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee.
+
+  Then spake the blind beggar, Although I bee poore,
+  Yett rayle not against my child at my own doore:
+  Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle,
+  Yett will I dropp angells with you for my girle.
+
+  And then, if my gold may better her birthe,
+  And equall the gold that you lay on the earth,
+  Then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see
+  The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee.
+
+  But first you shall promise, and have it well knowne,
+  The gold that you drop shall all be your owne.
+  With that they replyed, Contented bee wee.
+  Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that an angell he cast on the ground,
+  And dropped in angels full three thousand pound;
+  And oftentime itt was proved most plaine,
+  For the gentlemens one the beggar droppt twayne:
+
+  Soe that the place, wherin they did sitt,
+  With gold it was covered every whitt.
+  The gentlemen then having dropt all their store,
+  Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more.
+
+  Thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright.
+  Then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight;
+  And heere, added hee, I will now throwe you downe
+  A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne.
+
+  The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene,
+  Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene:
+  And all those, that were her suitors before,
+  Their fleshe for very anger they tore.
+
+  Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight,
+  And then made a ladye in others despite:
+  A fairer ladye there never was seene,
+  Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall-greene.
+
+  But of their sumptuous marriage and feast,
+  What brave lords and knights thither were prest,
+  The SECOND FITT shall set forth to your sight
+  With marveilous pleasure, and wished delight.
+
+
+PART THE SECOND
+
+
+  Off a blind beggars daughter most bright,
+  That late was betrothed unto a younge knight;
+  All the discourse therof you did see;
+  But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Within a gorgeous palace most brave,
+  Adorned with all the cost they cold have,
+  This wedding was kept most sumptuouslie,
+  And all for the credit of pretty Bessee.
+
+  All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete
+  Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete;
+  Partridge, and plover, and venison most free,
+  Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.
+
+  This marriage through England was spread by report,
+  Soe that a great number therto did resort
+  Of nobles and gentles in every degree;
+  And all for the fame of prettye Bessee.
+
+  To church then went this gallant younge knight;
+  His bride followed after, an angell most bright,
+  With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was scene
+  As went with sweete Bessy of Bednall-greene.
+
+  This marryage being solempnized then,
+  With musicke performed by the skilfullest men,
+  The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde,
+  Each one admiring the beautiful bryde.
+
+  Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done,
+  To talke, and to reason a number begunn:
+  They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright,
+  And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.
+
+  Then spake the nobles, "Much marveil have wee,
+  This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see."
+  My lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base,
+  He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.
+
+  "The prayse of a woman in question to bringe
+  Before her own face, were a flattering thinge;
+  But wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they,
+  "Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye."
+
+  They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke,
+  But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke;
+  A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee,
+  And now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee.
+
+  He had a daintye lute under his arme,
+  He touched the strings, which made such a charme,
+  Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee,
+  Ile sing you a song of pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that his lute he twanged straightway,
+  And thereon begann most sweetlye to play;
+  And after that lessons were playd two or three,
+  He strayn'd out this song most delicatelie.
+
+  "A poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene,
+  Who for her fairenesse might well be a queene:
+  A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee,
+  And many one called her pretty Bessee.
+
+  "Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land,
+  But begged for a penny all day with his hand;
+  And yett to her marriage he gave thousands three,
+  And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.
+
+  "And if any one here her birth doe disdaine,
+  Her father is ready, with might and with maine,
+  To proove shee is come of noble degree:
+  Therfore never flout att prettye Bessee."
+
+  With that the lords and the companye round
+  With harty laughter were readye to swound;
+  Att last said the lords, Full well wee may see,
+  The bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee.
+
+  On this the bride all blushing did rise,
+  The pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes,
+  O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee,
+  That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee.
+
+  If this be thy father, the nobles did say,
+  Well may he be proud of this happy day;
+  Yett by his countenance well may wee see,
+  His birth and his fortune did never agree:
+
+  And therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray,
+  (and looke that the truth thou to us doe say)
+  Thy birth and thy parentage, whatt itt may bee;
+  For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee.
+
+  "Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one,
+  One song more to sing, and then I have done;
+  And if that itt may not winn good report,
+  Then doe not give me a GROAT for my sport.
+
+  "Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shal bee;
+  Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee,
+  Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase,
+  Now loste and forgotten are hee and his race.
+
+  "When the barons in armes did King Henrye oppose,
+  Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose;
+  A leader of courage undaunted was hee,
+  And oft-times he made their enemyes flee.
+
+  "At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine
+  The barons were routed, and Montford was slaine;
+  Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee,
+  Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee!
+
+  "Along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde,
+  His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his side,
+  Was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight!
+  A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight.
+
+  "Among the dead bodyes all lifeless he laye,
+  Till evening drewe on of the following daye,
+  When by a yong ladye discovered was hee;
+  And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee!
+
+  "A barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte
+  To search for her father, who fell in the fight,
+  And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he laye,
+  Was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye.
+
+  "In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine,
+  While he throughe the realme was beleeved to be slaine
+  At lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee,
+  And made him glad father of prettye Bessee.
+
+  "And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye,
+  We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye;
+  Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee:
+  All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee.
+
+  "And here have we lived in fortunes despite,
+  Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte:
+  Full forty winters thus have I beene
+  A silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene.
+
+  "And here, noble lordes, is ended the song
+  Of one, that once to your own ranke did belong:
+  And thus have you learned a secrette from mee,
+  That ne'er had been knowne, but for prettye Bessee."
+
+  Now when the faire companye everye one,
+  Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne,
+  They all were amazed, as well they might bee,
+  Both at the blinde beggar, and pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that the faire bride they all did embrace,
+  Saying, Sure thou art come of an honourable race,
+  Thy father likewise is of noble degree,
+  And thou art well worthy a lady to bee.
+
+  Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte,
+  A bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte,
+  In joy and felicitie long lived hee,
+  All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.
+
+
+[Illustration: Hand dropping gold coins]
+
+
+
+
+
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+
+
+  Thomas lay on the Huntlie bank,
+    A spying ferlies wi his eee,
+  And he did spy a lady gay,
+    Come riding down by the lang lee.
+
+  Her steed was o the dapple grey,
+    And at its mane there hung bells nine;
+  He thought he heard that lady say,
+    "They gowden bells sall a' be thine."
+
+  Her mantle was o velvet green,
+    And a' set round wi jewels fine;
+  Her hawk and hounds were at her side,
+    And her bugle-horn wi gowd did shine.
+
+  Thomas took aff baith cloak and cap,
+    For to salute this gay lady:
+  "O save ye, save ye, fair Queen o Heavn,
+    And ay weel met ye save and see!"
+
+  "I'm no the Queen o Heavn, Thomas;
+    I never carried my head sae hee;
+  For I am but a lady gay,
+    Come out to hunt in my follee.
+
+  "Now gin ye kiss my mouth, Thomas,
+    Ye mauna miss my fair bodee;
+  Then ye may een gang hame and tell
+    That ye've lain wi a gay ladee."
+
+  "O gin I loe a lady fair,
+    Nae ill tales o her wad I tell,
+  And it's wi thee I fain wad gae,
+    Tho it were een to heavn or hell."
+
+  "Then harp and carp, Thomas," she said,
+    "Then harp and carp alang wi me;
+  But it will be seven years and a day
+    Till ye win back to yere ain countrie."
+
+  The lady rade, True Thomas ran,
+    Until they cam to a water wan;
+  O it was night, and nae delight,
+    And Thomas wade aboon the knee.
+
+  It was dark night, and nae starn-light,
+    And on they waded lang days three,
+  And they heard the roaring o a flood,
+    And Thomas a waefou man was he.
+
+  Then they rade on, and farther on,
+    Untill they came to a garden green;
+  To pu an apple he put up his hand,
+    For the lack o food he was like to tyne.
+
+  "O haud yere hand, Thomas," she cried,
+    "And let that green flourishing be;
+  For it's the very fruit o hell,
+    Beguiles baith man and woman o yere countrie.
+
+  "But look afore ye, True Thomas,
+    And I shall show ye ferlies three;
+  Yon is the gate leads to our land,
+    Where thou and I sae soon shall be.
+
+  "And dinna ye see yon road, Thomas,
+    That lies out-owr yon lilly lee?
+  Weel is the man yon gate may gang,
+    For it leads him straight to the heavens hie.
+
+  "But do you see yon road, Thomas,
+    That lies out-owr yon frosty fell?
+  Ill is the man yon gate may gang,
+    For it leads him straight to the pit o hell.
+
+  "Now when ye come to our court, Thomas,
+    See that a weel-learned man ye be;
+  For they will ask ye, one and all,
+    But ye maun answer nane but me.
+
+  "And when nae answer they obtain,
+    Then will they come and question me,
+  And I will answer them again
+    That I gat yere aith at the Eildon tree.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  "Ilka seven years, Thomas,
+    We pay our teindings unto hell,
+  And ye're sae leesome and sae strang
+    That I fear, Thomas, it will be yeresell."
+
+
+
+
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+
+
+  In London city was Bicham born,
+    He longd strange countries for to see,
+  But he was taen by a savage Moor,
+    Who handld him right cruely.
+
+  For thro his shoulder he put a bore,
+    An thro the bore has pitten a tree,
+  An he's gard him draw the carts o wine,
+    Where horse and oxen had wont to be.
+
+  He's casten [him] in a dungeon deep,
+    Where he coud neither hear nor see;
+  He's shut him up in a prison strong,
+    An he's handld him right cruely.
+
+  O this Moor he had but ae daughter,
+    I wot her name was Shusy Pye;
+  She's doen her to the prison-house,
+    And she's calld Young Bicham one word
+
+  "O hae ye ony lands or rents,
+    Or citys in your ain country,
+  Coud free you out of prison strong,
+    An coud mantain a lady free?"
+
+  "O London city is my own,
+    An other citys twa or three,
+  Coud loose me out o prison strong,
+    An coud mantain a lady free."
+
+  O she has bribed her father's men
+    Wi meikle goud and white money,
+  She's gotten the key o the prison doors,
+    An she has set Young Bicham free.
+
+  She's g'in him a loaf o good white bread,
+    But an a flask o Spanish wine,
+  An she bad him mind on the ladie's love
+    That sae kindly freed him out o pine.
+
+  "Go set your foot on good ship-board,
+    An haste you back to your ain country,
+  An before that seven years has an end,
+    Come back again, love, and marry me."
+
+  It was long or seven years had an end
+    She longd fu sair her love to see;
+  She's set her foot on good ship-board,
+    And turnd her back on her ain country.
+
+  She's saild up, so has she doun,
+    Till she came to the other side;
+  She's landed at Young Bicham's gates,
+    An I hop this day she sal be his bride.
+
+  "Is this Young Bicham's gates?" says she,
+    "Or is that noble prince within?"
+  "He's up the stairs wi his bonny bride,
+    An monny a lord and lady wi him."
+
+  "O has he taen a bonny bride,
+    An has he clean forgotten me!"
+  An sighing said that gay lady,
+    I wish I were in my ain country!
+
+  But she's pitten her han in her pocket,
+    An gin the porter guineas three;
+  Says, Take ye that, ye proud porter,
+    An bid the bridegroom speak to me.
+
+  O whan the porter came up the stair,
+    He's fa'n low down upon his knee:
+  "Won up, won up, ye proud porter,
+    An what makes a' this courtesy?"
+
+  "O I've been porter at your gates
+    This mair nor seven years an three,
+  But there is a lady at them now
+    The like of whom I never did see.
+
+  "For on every finger she has a ring,
+    An on the mid-finger she has three,
+  An there's a meikle goud aboon her brow
+    As woud buy an earldome o lan to me."
+
+  Then up it started Young Bicham,
+    An sware so loud by Our Lady,
+  "It can be nane but Shusy Pye,
+    That has come oer the sea to me."
+
+  O quickly ran he down the stair,
+    O fifteen steps he has made but three;
+  He's tane his bonny love in his arms,
+    An a wot he kissd her tenderly.
+
+  "O hae you tane a bonny bride?
+    An hae you quite forsaken me?
+  An hae ye quite forgotten her
+    That gae you life an liberty? "
+  She's lookit oer her left shoulder
+    To hide the tears stood in her ee;
+  "Now fare thee well, Young Bicham," she says,
+    "I'll strive to think nae mair on thee."
+
+  "Take back your daughter, madam," he says,
+    "An a double dowry I'll gi her wi;
+  For I maun marry my first true love,
+    That's done and suffered so much for me."
+
+  He's take his bonny love by the ban,
+    And led her to yon fountain stane;
+  He's changd her name frae Shusy Pye,
+    An he's cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+
+
+  The fifteenth day of July,
+    With glistering spear and shield,
+  A famous fight in Flanders
+    Was foughten in the field:
+  The most couragious officers
+    Were English captains three;
+  But the bravest man in battel
+    Was brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  The next was Captain Norris,
+    A valiant man was hee:
+  The other Captain Turner,
+    From field would never flee.
+  With fifteen hundred fighting men,
+    Alas! there were no more,
+  They fought with fourteen thousand then,
+    Upon the bloody shore.
+
+  Stand to it, noble pikemen,
+    And look you round about:
+  And shoot you right, you bow-men,
+    And we will keep them out:
+  You musquet and calliver men,
+    Do you prove true to me,
+  I'le be the formost man in fight,
+    Says brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  And then the bloody enemy
+    They fiercely did assail,
+  And fought it out most furiously,
+    Not doubting to prevail:
+  The wounded men on both sides fell
+    Most pitious for to see,
+  Yet nothing could the courage quell
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  For seven hours to all mens view
+    This fight endured sore,
+  Until our men so feeble grew
+    That they could fight no more;
+  And then upon dead horses
+    Full savourly they eat,
+  And drank the puddle water,
+    They could no better get.
+
+  When they had fed so freely,
+    They kneeled on the ground,
+  And praised God devoutly
+    For the favour they had found;
+  And beating up their colours,
+    The fight they did renew,
+  And turning tow'rds the Spaniard,
+    A thousand more they slew.
+
+  The sharp steel-pointed arrows,
+    And bullets thick did fly,
+  Then did our valiant soldiers
+    Charge on most furiously;
+  Which made the Spaniards waver,
+    They thought it best to flee,
+  They fear'd the stout behaviour
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  Then quoth the Spanish general,
+    Come let us march away,
+  I fear we shall be spoiled all
+    If here we longer stay;
+  For yonder comes Lord Willoughbey
+    With courage fierce and fell,
+  He will not give one inch of way
+    For all the devils in hell.
+
+  And then the fearful enemy
+    Was quickly put to flight,
+  Our men persued couragiously,
+    And caught their forces quite;
+  But at last they gave a shout,
+    Which ecchoed through the sky,
+  God, and St. George for England!
+    The conquerors did cry.
+
+  This news was brought to England
+    With all the speed might be,
+  And soon our gracious queen was told
+    Of this same victory.
+  O this is brave Lord Willoughbey,
+    My love that ever won,
+  Of all the lords of honour
+    'Tis he great deeds hath done.
+
+  To the souldiers that were maimed,
+    And wounded in the fray,
+  The queen allowed a pension
+    Of fifteen pence a day;
+  And from all costs and charges
+    She quit and set them free:
+  And this she did all for the sake
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  Then courage, noble Englishmen,
+    And never be dismaid;
+  If that we be but one to ten,
+    We will not be afraid
+  To fight with foraign enemies,
+    And set our nation free.
+  And thus I end the bloody bout
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+
+
+  Will you hear a Spanish lady,
+    How shed wooed an English man?
+  Garments gay and rich as may be
+    Decked with jewels she had on.
+  Of a comely countenance and grace was she,
+  And by birth and parentage of high degree.
+
+  As his prisoner there he kept her,
+    In his hands her life did lye!
+  Cupid's bands did tye them faster
+    By the liking of an eye.
+  In his courteous company was all her joy,
+  To favour him in any thing she was not coy.
+
+  But at last there came commandment
+    For to set the ladies free,
+  With their jewels still adorned,
+    None to do them injury.
+  Then said this lady mild, Full woe is me;
+  O let me still sustain this kind captivity!
+
+  Gallant captain, shew some pity
+    To a ladye in distresse;
+  Leave me not within this city,
+    For to dye in heavinesse:
+  Thou hast this present day my body free,
+  But my heart in prison still remains with thee.
+
+  "How should'st thou, fair lady, love me,
+    Whom thou knowest thy country's foe?
+  Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee:
+    Serpents lie where flowers grow."
+  All the harme I wishe to thee, most courteous knight,
+  God grant the same upon my head may fully light.
+  Blessed be the time and season,
+    That you came on Spanish ground;
+  If our foes you may be termed,
+    Gentle foes we have you found:
+  With our city, you have won our hearts eche one,
+  Then to your country bear away, that is your owne.
+
+  "Rest you still, most gallant lady;
+    Rest you still, and weep no more;
+  Of fair lovers there is plenty,
+    Spain doth yield a wonderous store."
+  Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find,
+  But Englishmen through all the world are counted kind.
+
+  Leave me not unto a Spaniard,
+    You alone enjoy my heart:
+  I am lovely, young, and tender,
+    Love is likewise my desert:
+  Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest;
+  The wife of every Englishman is counted blest.
+  "It wold be a shame, fair lady,
+    For to bear a woman hence;
+  English soldiers never carry
+    Any such without offence."
+  I'll quickly change myself, if it be so,
+  And like a page He follow thee, where'er thou go.
+
+  "I have neither gold nor silver
+    To maintain thee in this case,
+  And to travel is great charges,
+    As you know in every place."
+  My chains and jewels every one shal be thy own,
+  And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.
+
+  "On the seas are many dangers,
+    Many storms do there arise,
+  Which wil be to ladies dreadful,
+    And force tears from watery eyes."
+  Well in troth I shall endure extremity,
+  For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.
+
+  "Courteous ladye, leave this fancy,
+    Here comes all that breeds the strife;
+  I in England have already
+    A sweet woman to my wife:
+  I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain,
+  Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain."
+
+  O how happy is that woman
+    That enjoys so true a friend!
+  Many happy days God send her;
+    Of my suit I make an end:
+  On my knees I pardon crave for my offence,
+  Which did from love and true affection first commence.
+
+  Commend me to thy lovely lady,
+    Bear to her this chain of gold;
+  And these bracelets for a token;
+    Grieving that I was so bold:
+  All my jewels in like sort take thou with thee,
+  For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.
+
+  I will spend my days in prayer,
+    Love and all her laws defye;
+  In a nunnery will I shroud mee
+    Far from any companye:
+  But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this,
+  To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.
+
+  Thus farewell, most gallant captain!
+    Farewell too my heart's content!
+  Count not Spanish ladies wanton,
+    Though to thee my love was bent:
+  Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee!
+   "The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladie."
+
+
+
+
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  It was a friar of orders gray
+   Walkt forth to tell his beades;
+  And he met with a lady faire,
+    Clad in a pilgrime's weedes.
+
+  Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,
+    I pray thee tell to me,
+  If ever at yon holy shrine
+    My true love thou didst see.
+
+  And how should I know your true love
+    From many another one?
+  O by his cockle hat, and staff,
+    And by his sandal shoone.
+
+  But chiefly by his face and mien,
+    That were so fair to view;
+  His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,
+    And eyne of lovely blue.
+
+  O lady, he is dead and gone!
+    Lady, he's dead and gone!
+  And at his head a green grass turfe,
+    And at his heels a stone.
+
+  Within these holy cloysters long
+    He languisht, and he dyed,
+  Lamenting of a ladyes love,
+    And 'playning of her pride.
+
+  Here bore him barefac'd on his bier
+    Six proper youths and tall,
+  And many a tear bedew'd his grave
+    Within yon kirk-yard wall.
+
+  And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!
+    And art thou dead and gone!
+  And didst thou die for love of me!
+    Break, cruel heart of stone!
+
+  O weep not, lady, weep not soe;
+    Some ghostly comfort seek:
+  Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
+    Ne teares bedew thy cheek.
+
+  O do not, do not, holy friar,
+    My sorrow now reprove;
+  For I have lost the sweetest youth,
+    That e'er wan ladyes love.
+
+  And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse,
+    I'll evermore weep and sigh;
+  For thee I only wisht to live,
+    For thee I wish to dye.
+
+  Weep no more, lady, weep no more,
+    Thy sorrowe is in vaine:
+  For violets pluckt the sweetest showers
+    Will ne'er make grow againe.
+
+  Our joys as winged dreams doe flye,
+    Why then should sorrow last?
+  Since grief but aggravates thy losse,
+    Grieve not for what is past.
+
+  O say not soe, thou holy friar;
+    I pray thee, say not soe:
+  For since my true-love dyed for mee,
+    'Tis meet my tears should flow.
+
+  And will he ne'er come again?
+    Will he ne'er come again?
+  Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,
+    For ever to remain.
+
+  His cheek was redder than the rose;
+    The comliest youth was he!
+  But he is dead and laid in his grave:
+    Alas, and woe is me!
+
+  Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,
+    Men were deceivers ever:
+  One foot on sea and one on land,
+    To one thing constant never.
+
+  Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,
+    And left thee sad and heavy;
+  For young men ever were fickle found,
+    Since summer trees were leafy.
+
+  Now say not so, thou holy friar,
+    I pray thee say not soe;
+  My love he had the truest heart:
+    O he was ever true!
+
+  And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth,
+    And didst thou dye for mee?
+  Then farewell home; for ever-more
+    A pilgrim I will bee.
+
+  But first upon my true-loves grave
+    My weary limbs I'll lay,
+  And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,
+    That wraps his breathless clay.
+
+  Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile
+    Beneath this cloyster wall:
+  See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,
+    And drizzly rain doth fall.
+
+  O stay me not, thou holy friar;
+    O stay me not, I pray;
+  No drizzly rain that falls on me,
+    Can wash my fault away.
+
+  Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
+    And dry those pearly tears;
+  For see beneath this gown of gray
+    Thy own true-love appears.
+
+  Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love,
+    These holy weeds I sought;
+  And here amid these lonely walls
+    To end my days I thought.
+
+  But haply for my year of grace
+    Is not yet past away,
+  Might I still hope to win thy love,
+    No longer would I stay.
+
+  Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
+    Once more unto my heart;
+  For since I have found thee, lovely youth,
+    We never more will part.
+
+
+
+
+CLERK COLVILL
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Clerk Colvill and his lusty dame
+    Were walking in the garden green;
+  The belt around her stately waist
+    Cost Clerk Colvill of pounds fifteen.
+
+  "O promise me now, Clerk Colvill,
+    Or it will cost ye muckle strife,
+  Ride never by the wells of Slane,
+    If ye wad live and brook your life."
+
+  "Now speak nae mair, my lusty dame,
+    Now speak nae mair of that to me;
+  Did I neer see a fair woman,
+    But I wad sin with her body?"
+
+  He's taen leave o his gay lady,
+    Nought minding what his lady said,
+  And he's rode by the wells of Slane,
+    Where washing was a bonny maid.
+
+  "Wash on, wash on, my bonny maid,
+    That wash sae clean your sark of silk;"
+  "And weel fa you, fair gentleman,
+    Your body whiter than the milk."
+
+      *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Then loud, loud cry'd the Clerk Colvill,
+    "O my head it pains me sair;"
+  "Then take, then take," the maiden said,
+    "And frae my sark you'll cut a gare."
+
+  Then she's gied him a little bane-knife,
+    And frae her sark he cut a share;
+  She's ty'd it round his whey-white face,
+    But ay his head it aked mair.
+
+  Then louder cry'd the Clerk Colville,
+    "O sairer, sairer akes my head;"
+  "And sairer, sairer ever will,"
+    The maiden crys, "till you be dead."
+
+  Out then he drew his shining blade,
+    Thinking to stick her where she stood,
+  But she was vanished to a fish,
+    And swam far off, a fair mermaid.
+
+  "O mother, mother, braid my hair;
+    My lusty lady, make my bed;
+  O brother, take my sword and spear,
+    For I have seen the false mermaid."
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+SIR ALDINGAR
+
+
+  Our king he kept a false stewarde,
+    Sir Aldingar they him call;
+  A falser steward than he was one,
+    Servde not in bower nor hall.
+
+  He wolde have layne by our comelye queene,
+    Her deere worshippe to betraye:
+  Our queene she was a good woman,
+    And evermore said him naye.
+
+  Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind,
+    With her hee was never content,
+  Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse,
+    In a fyer to have her brent.
+
+  There came a lazar to the kings gate,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame:
+  He tooke the lazar upon his backe,
+    Him on the queenes bed has layne.
+
+  "Lye still, lazar, whereas thou lyest,
+    Looke thou goe not hence away;
+  He make thee a whole man and a sound
+    In two howers of the day."
+
+  Then went him forth Sir Aldingar,
+    And hyed him to our king:
+  "If I might have grace, as I have space,
+    Sad tydings I could bring."
+
+  Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar,
+    Saye on the soothe to mee.
+  "Our queene hath chosen a new new love,
+    And shee will have none of thee.
+
+  "If shee had chosen a right good knight,
+    The lesse had beene her shame;
+  But she hath chose her a lazar man,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame."
+
+  If this be true, thou Aldingar,
+    The tyding thou tellest to me,
+  Then will I make thee a rich rich knight,
+    Rich both of golde and fee.
+
+  But if it be false, Sir Aldingar,
+    As God nowe grant it bee!
+  Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood,
+    Shall hang on the gallows tree.
+
+  He brought our king to the queenes chamber,
+    And opend to him the dore.
+  A lodlye love, King Harry says,
+    For our queene dame Elinore!
+
+  If thou were a man, as thou art none,
+    Here on my sword thoust dye;
+  But a payre of new gallowes shall be built,
+    And there shalt thou hang on hye.
+
+  Forth then hyed our king, I wysse,
+    And an angry man was hee;
+  And soone he found Queen Elinore,
+    That bride so bright of blee.
+
+  Now God you save, our queene, madame,
+    And Christ you save and see;
+  Heere you have chosen a newe newe love,
+    And you will have none of mee.
+
+  If you had chosen a right good knight,
+    The lesse had been your shame;
+  But you have chose you a lazar man,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame.
+
+  Therfore a fyer there shalt be built,
+    And brent all shalt thou bee.--
+  Now out alacke! said our comly queene,
+    Sir Aldingar's false to mee.
+
+  Now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene,
+    My heart with griefe will brast.
+  I had thought swevens had never been true;
+    I have proved them true at last.
+
+  I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve,
+    In my bed whereas I laye.
+  I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast
+    Had carryed my crowne awaye;
+
+  My gorgett and my kirtle of golde,
+    And all my faire head-geere:
+  And he wold worrye me with his tush
+    And to his nest y-beare:
+
+  Saving there came a little 'gray' hawke,
+    A merlin him they call,
+  Which untill the grounde did strike the grype,
+    That dead he downe did fall.
+
+  Giffe I were a man, as now I am none,
+    A battell wold I prove,
+  To fight with that traitor Aldingar,
+    Att him I cast my glove.
+
+  But seeing Ime able noe battell to make,
+    My liege, grant me a knight
+  To fight with that traitor Sir Aldingar,
+    To maintaine me in my right.
+
+  "Now forty dayes I will give thee
+    To seeke thee a knight therein:
+  If thou find not a knight in forty dayes
+    Thy bodye it must brenn."
+
+  Then shee sent east, and shee sent west,
+    By north and south bedeene:
+  But never a champion colde she find,
+    Wolde fight with that knight soe keene.
+
+  Now twenty dayes were spent and gone,
+    Noe helpe there might be had;
+  Many a teare shed our comelye queene
+    And aye her hart was sad.
+
+  Then came one of the queenes damselles,
+    And knelt upon her knee,
+  "Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame,
+    I trust yet helpe may be:
+
+  And here I will make mine avowe,
+    And with the same me binde;
+  That never will I return to thee,
+    Till I some helpe may finde."
+
+  Then forth she rode on a faire palfraye
+    Oer hill and dale about:
+  But never a champion colde she finde,
+    Wolde fighte with that knight so stout.
+
+  And nowe the daye drewe on a pace,
+    When our good queene must dye;
+  All woe-begone was that faire damselle,
+    When she found no helpe was nye.
+
+  All woe-begone was that faire damselle,
+    And the salt teares fell from her eye:
+  When lo! as she rode by a rivers side,
+    She met with a tinye boye.
+
+  A tinye boye she mette, God wot,
+    All clad in mantle of golde;
+  He seemed noe more in mans likenesse,
+    Then a childe of four yeere old.
+
+  Why grieve you, damselle faire, he sayd,
+    And what doth cause you moane?
+  The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke,
+    But fast she pricked on.
+
+  Yet turne againe, thou faire damselle
+    And greete thy queene from mee:
+  When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest,
+    Nowe helpe enoughe may bee.
+
+  Bid her remember what she dreamt
+    In her bedd, wheras shee laye;
+  How when the grype and grimly beast
+    Wolde have carried her crowne awaye,
+
+  Even then there came the little gray hawke,
+    And saved her from his clawes:
+  Then bidd the queene be merry at hart,
+    For heaven will fende her cause.
+
+  Back then rode that faire damselle,
+    And her hart it lept for glee:
+  And when she told her gracious dame
+    A gladd woman then was shee:
+
+  But when the appointed day was come,
+    No helpe appeared nye:
+  Then woeful, woeful was her hart,
+    And the teares stood in her eye.
+
+  And nowe a fyer was built of wood;
+    And a stake was made of tree;
+  And now Queene Elinor forth was led,
+    A sorrowful sight to see.
+
+  Three times the herault he waved his hand,
+    And three times spake on hye:
+  Giff any good knight will fende this dame,
+    Come forth, or shee must dye.
+
+  No knight stood forth, no knight there came,
+    No helpe appeared nye:
+  And now the fyer was lighted up,
+    Queen Elinor she must dye.
+
+  And now the fyer was lighted up,
+    As hot as hot might bee;
+  When riding upon a little white steed,
+    The tinye boy they see.
+
+  "Away with that stake, away with those brands,
+    And loose our comelye queene:
+  I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar,
+    And prove him a traitor keene."
+
+  Forthe then stood Sir Aldingar,
+    But when he saw the chylde,
+  He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe,
+    And weened he had been beguylde.
+
+  "Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar,
+    And eyther fighte or flee;
+  I trust that I shall avenge the wronge,
+    Thoughe I am so small to see."
+
+  The boy pulld forth a well good sworde
+    So gilt it dazzled the ee;
+  The first stroke stricken at Aldingar,
+    Smote off his leggs by the knee.
+
+  "Stand up, stand up, thou false traitor,
+    And fight upon thy feete,
+  For and thou thrive, as thou begin'st,
+    Of height wee shall be meete."
+
+  A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingar,
+    While I am a man alive.
+  A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingar,
+    Me for to houzle and shrive.
+
+  I wolde have laine by our comlie queene,
+    Bot shee wolde never consent;
+  Then I thought to betraye her unto our kinge
+    In a fyer to have her brent.
+
+  There came a lazar to the kings gates,
+    A lazar both blind and lame:
+  I tooke the lazar upon my backe,
+    And on her bedd had him layne.
+
+  Then ranne I to our comlye king,
+    These tidings sore to tell.
+  But ever alacke! sayes Aldingar,
+    Falsing never doth well.
+
+  Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame,
+    The short time I must live.
+  "Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar,
+    As freely I forgive."
+
+  Here take thy queene, our king Harrye,
+    And love her as thy life,
+  For never had a king in Christentye.
+    A truer and fairer wife.
+
+  King Henrye ran to claspe his queene,
+    And loosed her full sone:
+  Then turned to look for the tinye boye;
+    --The boye was vanisht and gone.
+
+  But first he had touched the lazar man,
+    And stroakt him with his hand:
+  The lazar under the gallowes tree
+    All whole and sounde did stand.
+
+  The lazar under the gallowes tree
+    Was comelye, straight and tall;
+  King Henrye made him his head stewarde
+    To wayte withinn his hall.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+EDOM O' GORDON
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  It fell about the Martinmas,
+    Quhen the wind blew shril and cauld,
+  Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,
+    We maun draw till a hauld.
+
+  And quhat a hauld sall we draw till,
+    My mirry men and me?
+  We wul gae to the house o' the Rodes,
+    To see that fair ladie.
+
+  The lady stude on her castle wa',
+    Beheld baith dale and down:
+  There she was ware of a host of men
+    Cum ryding towards the toun.
+
+  O see ze nat, my mirry men a'?
+    O see za nat quhat I see?
+  Methinks I see a host of men:
+    I marveil quha they be.
+
+  She weend it had been hir luvely lord,
+    As he cam ryding hame;
+  It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon,
+    Quha reckt nae sin nor shame.
+
+  She had nae sooner buskit hirsel,
+    And putten on hir goun,
+  But Edom o' Gordon and his men
+    Were round about the toun.
+
+  They had nae sooner supper sett,
+    Nae sooner said the grace,
+  But Edom o' Gordon and his men
+    Were light about the place.
+
+  The lady ran up to hir towir head,
+    Sa fast as she could hie,
+  To see if by hir fair speeches
+    She could wi' him agree.
+
+  But quhan he see this lady saif,
+    And hir yates all locked fast,
+  He fell into a rage of wrath,
+    And his look was all aghast.
+
+  Cum doun to me, ze lady gay,
+    Cum doun, cum doun to me:
+  This night sall ye lig within mine armes,
+    To-morrow my bride sall be.
+
+  I winnae cum doun ze fals Gordon,
+    I winnae cum doun to thee;
+  I winna forsake my ain dear lord,
+    That is sae far frae me.
+
+  Give owre zour house, ze lady fair,
+    Give owre zour house to me,
+  Or I sall brenn yoursel therein,
+    Bot and zour babies three.
+
+  I winnae give owre, ze false Gordon,
+    To nae sik traitor as zee;
+  And if ze brenn my ain dear babes,
+    My lord sall make ze drie.
+
+  But reach my pistoll, Glaud my man,
+    And charge ze weil my gun:
+  For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher,
+    My babes we been undone.
+
+  She stude upon hir castle wa',
+    And let twa bullets flee:
+  She mist that bluidy butchers hart,
+    And only raz'd his knee.
+
+  Set fire to the house, quo' fals Gordon,
+    All wood wi' dule and ire:
+  Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid,
+    As ze bren in the fire.
+
+  Wae worth, wae worth ze, Jock my man,
+    I paid ze weil zour fee;
+  Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane,
+    Lets in the reek to me?
+
+  And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man,
+    I paid ze weil zour hire;
+  Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane,
+    To me lets in the fire?
+
+  Ze paid me weil my hire, lady;
+    Ze paid me weil my fee:
+  But now I'm Edom o' Gordons man,
+    Maun either doe or die.
+
+  O than bespaik hir little son,
+    Sate on the nurses knee:
+  Sayes, Mither deare, gi' owre this house,
+    For the reek it smithers me.
+
+  I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe,
+    Say wald I a' my fee,
+  For ane blast o' the western wind,
+    To blaw the reek frae thee.
+
+  O then bespaik hir dochter dear,
+    She was baith jimp and sma;
+  O row me in a pair o' sheits,
+    And tow me owre the wa.
+
+  They rowd hir in a pair o' sheits,
+    And towd hir owre the wa:
+  But on the point of Gordons spear
+    She gat a deadly fa.
+
+  O bonnie bonnie was hir mouth,
+    And cherry were her cheiks,
+  And clear clear was hir zellow hair,
+    Whereon the reid bluid dreips.
+
+  Then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre,
+    O gin hir face was wan!
+  He sayd, Ze are the first that eir
+    I wisht alive again.
+
+  He turnd hir owre and owre againe,
+    O gin hir skin was whyte!
+  I might ha spared that bonnie face
+    To hae been sum mans delyte.
+
+  Busk and boun, my merry men a',
+    For ill dooms I doe guess;
+  I cannae luik in that bonnie face,
+    As it lyes on the grass.
+
+  Thame, luiks to freits, my master deir,
+    Then freits wil follow thame:
+  Let neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon
+    Was daunted by a dame.
+
+  But quhen the ladye see the fire
+    Cum flaming owre hir head,
+  She wept and kist her children twain,
+    Sayd, Bairns, we been but dead.
+
+  The Gordon then his bougill blew,
+    And said, Awa', awa';
+  This house o' the Rodes is a' in flame,
+    I hauld it time to ga'.
+
+  O then bespyed hir ain dear lord,
+    As hee cam owr the lee;
+  He sied his castle all in blaze     Sa far as he could see.
+
+  Then sair, O sair his mind misgave,
+    And all his hart was wae;
+  Put on, put on, my wighty men,
+    So fast as ze can gae.
+
+  Put on, put on, my wighty men,
+    Sa fast as ze can drie;
+  For he that is hindmost of the thrang
+    Sall neir get guid o' me.
+
+  Than sum they rade, and sum they rin,
+    Fou fast out-owr the bent;
+  But eir the foremost could get up,
+    Baith lady and babes were brent.
+
+  He wrang his hands, he rent his hair,
+    And wept in teenefu' muid:
+  O traitors, for this cruel deid
+    Ze sall weep tiers o' bluid.
+
+  And after the Gordon he is gane,
+    Sa fast as he might drie.
+  And soon i' the Gordon's foul hartis bluid
+    He's wroken his dear ladie.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+CHEVY CHASE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  God prosper long our noble king,
+    Our lives and safetyes all;
+  A woefull hunting once there did
+    In Chevy-Chace befall;
+
+  To drive the deere with hound and horne,
+    Erle Percy took his way,
+  The child may rue that is unborne,
+    The hunting of that day.
+
+  The stout Erle of Northumberland
+    A vow to God did make,
+  His pleasure in the Scottish woods
+    Three summers days to take;
+
+  The cheefest harts in Chevy-chace
+    To kill and beare away.
+  These tydings to Erle Douglas came,
+    In Scotland where he lay:
+
+  Who sent Erle Percy present word,
+    He wold prevent his sport.
+  The English erle, not fearing that,
+    Did to the woods resort
+
+  With fifteen hundred bow-men bold;
+    All chosen men of might,
+  Who knew full well in time of neede
+    To ayme their shafts arright.
+
+  The galland greyhounds swiftly ran,
+    To chase the fallow deere:
+  On munday they began to hunt,
+    Ere day-light did appeare;
+
+  And long before high noone they had
+    An hundred fat buckes slaine;
+  Then having dined, the drovyers went
+    To rouze the deare againe.
+
+  The bow-men mustered on the hills,
+    Well able to endure;
+  Theire backsides all, with speciall care,
+    That day were guarded sure.
+
+  The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,
+    The nimble deere to take,
+  That with their cryes the hills and dales
+    An eccho shrill did make.
+
+  Lord Percy to the quarry went,
+    To view the slaughter'd deere;
+  Quoth he, Erle Douglas promised
+    This day to meet me heere:
+
+  But if I thought he wold not come,
+    Noe longer wold I stay.
+  With that, a brave younge gentleman
+    Thus to the Erle did say:
+
+  Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,
+    His men in armour bright;
+  Full twenty hundred Scottish speres
+    All marching in our sight;
+
+  All men of pleasant Tivydale,
+    Fast by the river Tweede:
+  O cease your sports, Erle Percy said,
+    And take your bowes with speede:
+
+  And now with me, my countrymen,
+    Your courage forth advance;
+  For there was never champion yett,
+    In Scotland nor in France,
+
+  That ever did on horsebacke come,
+    But if my hap it were,
+  I durst encounter man for man,
+    With him to break a spere.
+
+  Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede,
+    Most like a baron bolde,
+  Rode foremost of his company,
+    Whose armour shone like gold.
+
+  Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee,
+    That hunt soe boldly heere,
+  That, without my consent, doe chase
+    And kill my fallow-deere.
+
+  The first man that did answer make
+    Was noble Percy hee;
+  Who sayd, Wee list not to declare,
+    Nor shew whose men wee bee:
+  Yet wee will spend our deerest blood,
+    Thy cheefest harts to slay.
+  Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe,
+    And thus in rage did say,
+
+  Ere thus I will out-braved bee,
+    One of us two shall dye:
+  I know thee well, an erle thou art;
+    Lord Percy, soe am I.
+
+  But trust me, Percy, pittye it were,
+    And great offence to kill
+  Any of these our guiltlesse men,
+    For they have done no ill.
+
+  Let thou and I the battell trye,
+    And set our men aside.
+  Accurst bee he, Erle Percy sayd,
+    By whome this is denyed.
+
+  Then stept a gallant squier forth,
+    Witherington was his name,
+  Who said, I wold not have it told
+    To Henry our king for shame,
+
+  That ere my captaine fought on foote,
+    And I stood looking on.
+  You be two erles, sayd Witherington,
+    And I a squier alone:
+
+  He doe the best that doe I may,
+    While I have power to stand:
+  While I have power to weeld my sword
+    He fight with hart and hand.
+
+  Our English archers bent their bowes,
+    Their harts were good and trew;
+  Att the first flight of arrowes sent,
+    Full four-score Scots they slew.
+
+  Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent,
+    As Chieftain stout and good.
+  As valiant Captain, all unmov'd
+    The shock he firmly stood.
+
+  His host he parted had in three,
+    As Leader ware and try'd,
+  And soon his spearmen on their foes
+    Bare down on every side.
+
+  To drive the deere with hound and horne,
+    Douglas bade on the bent
+  Two captaines moved with mickle might
+    Their speres to shivers went.
+
+  Throughout the English archery
+    They dealt full many a wound:
+  But still our valiant Englishmen
+    All firmly kept their ground:
+
+  And throwing strait their bows away,
+    They grasp'd their swords so bright:
+  And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,
+    On shields and helmets light.
+
+  They closed full fast on every side,
+    Noe slackness there was found:
+  And many a gallant gentleman
+    Lay gasping on the ground.
+
+  O Christ! it was a griefe to see;
+    And likewise for to heare,
+  The cries of men lying in their gore,
+    And scattered here and there.
+
+  At last these two stout erles did meet,
+    Like captaines of great might:
+  Like lyons wood, they layd on lode,
+    And made a cruell fight:
+
+  They fought untill they both did sweat,
+    With swords of tempered steele;
+  Untill the blood, like drops of rain,
+    They tricklin downe did feele.
+
+  Yeeld thee, Lord Percy, Douglas sayd
+    In faith I will thee bringe,
+  Where thou shalt high advanced bee
+    By James our Scottish king:
+
+  Thy ransome I will freely give,
+    And this report of thee,
+  Thou art the most couragious knight,
+    That ever I did see.
+
+  Noe, Douglas, quoth Erle Percy then,
+    Thy proffer I doe scorne;
+  I will not yeelde to any Scott,
+    That ever yett was borne.
+
+  With that, there came an arrow keene
+    Out of an English bow,
+  Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart,
+    A deepe and deadlye blow:
+
+  Who never spake more words than these,
+    Fight on, my merry men all;
+  For why, my life is at an end;
+    Lord Percy sees my fall.
+
+  Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke
+    The dead man by the hand;
+  And said, Erle Douglas, for thy life
+    Wold I had lost my land.
+
+  O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed
+    With sorrow for thy sake;
+  For sure, a more redoubted knight
+    Mischance cold never take.
+
+  A knight amongst the Scotts there was
+    Which saw Erle Douglas dye,
+  Who streight in wrath did vow revenge
+    Upon the Lord Percye:
+
+  Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd,
+    Who, with a spere most bright,
+  Well-mounted on a gallant steed,
+    Ran fiercely through the fight;
+
+  And past the English archers all,
+    Without all dread or feare;
+  And through Earl Percyes body then
+    He thrust his hatefull spere;
+
+  With such a vehement force and might
+    He did his body gore,
+  The staff ran through the other side
+    A large cloth-yard and more.
+
+  So thus did both these nobles dye,
+    Whose courage none could staine:
+  An English archer then perceiv'd
+    The noble erle was slaine;
+
+  He had a bow bent in his hand,
+    Made of a trusty tree;
+  An arrow of a cloth-yard long
+    Up to the head drew hee:
+
+  Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye,
+    So right the shaft he sett,
+  The grey goose-winge that was thereon,
+    In his harts bloode was wette.
+
+  This fight did last from breake of day,
+    Till setting of the sun;
+  For when they rang the evening-bell,
+    The battel scarce was done.
+
+  With stout Erle Percy there was slaine
+    Sir John of Egerton,
+  Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,
+    Sir James that bold barron:
+
+  And with Sir George and stout Sir James,
+    Both knights of good account,
+  Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine,
+    Whose prowesse did surmount.
+
+  For Witherington needs must I wayle,
+    As one in doleful dumpes;
+  For when his leggs were smitten off,
+    He fought upon his stumpes.
+
+  And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine
+    Sir Hugh Montgomerye,
+  Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld
+    One foote wold never flee.
+
+  Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too,
+    His sisters sonne was hee;
+  Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd,
+    Yet saved cold not bee.
+
+  And the Lord Maxwell in like case
+    Did with Erle Douglas dye:
+  Of twenty hundred Scottish speres,
+    Scarce fifty-five did flye.
+
+  Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
+    Went home but fifty-three;
+  The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace,
+    Under the greene woode tree.
+
+  Next day did many widowes come,
+    Their husbands to bewayle;
+  They washt their wounds in brinish teares,
+    But all wold not prevayle.
+
+  Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore,
+    They bare with them away:
+  They kist them dead a thousand times,
+    Ere they were cladd in clay.
+
+  The news was brought to Eddenborrow,
+    Where Scottlands king did raigne,
+  That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye
+    Was with an arrow slaine:
+
+  O heavy newes, King James did say,
+    Scotland may witnesse bee,
+  I have not any captaine more
+    Of such account as hee.
+
+  Like tydings to King Henry came,
+    Within as short a space,
+  That Percy of Northumberland
+    Was slaine in Chevy-Chace:
+
+  Now God be with him, said our king,
+    Sith it will noe better bee;
+  I trust I have, within my realme,
+    Five hundred as good as hee:
+
+  Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say,
+    But I will vengeance take:
+  I'll be revenged on them all,
+    For brave Erle Percyes sake.
+
+  This vow full well the king perform'd
+    After, at Humbledowne;
+  In one day, fifty knights were slayne,
+    With lords of great renowne:
+
+  And of the rest, of small acount,
+    Did many thousands dye:
+  Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase,
+    Made by the Erle Percy.
+
+  God save our king, and bless this land
+    With plenty, joy, and peace;
+  And grant henceforth, that foule debate
+    'Twixt noblemen may cease.
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+
+
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+  When Arthur first in court began,
+    And was approved king,
+   By force of armes great victorys wanne,
+  And conquest home did bring,
+
+  Then into England straight he came
+    With fifty good and able
+  Knights, that resorted unto him,
+    And were of his round table:
+
+  And he had justs and turnaments,
+    Whereto were many prest,
+  Wherein some knights did far excell
+    And eke surmount the rest.
+
+  But one Sir Lancelot du Lake,
+    Who was approved well,
+  He for his deeds and feats of armes
+    All others did excell.
+
+  When he had rested him a while,
+    In play, and game, and sportt,
+  He said he wold goe prove himselfe
+    In some adventurous sort.
+
+  He armed rode in a forrest wide,
+    And met a damsell faire,
+  Who told him of adventures great,
+    Whereto he gave great eare.
+
+  Such wold I find, quoth Lancelott:
+    For that cause came I hither.
+  Thou seemest, quoth shee, a knight full good,
+    And I will bring thee thither.
+
+  Wheras a mighty knight doth dwell,
+    That now is of great fame:
+  Therefore tell me what wight thou art,
+    And what may be thy name.
+
+  "My name is Lancelot du Lake."
+    Quoth she, it likes me than:
+  Here dwelles a knight who never was
+    Yet matcht with any man:
+
+  Who has in prison threescore knights
+    And four, that he did wound;
+  Knights of King Arthurs court they be,
+    And of his table round.
+
+  She brought him to a river side,
+    And also to a tree,
+  Whereon a copper bason hung,
+    And many shields to see.
+
+  He struck soe hard, the bason broke;
+    And Tarquin soon he spyed:
+  Who drove a horse before him fast,
+    Whereon a knight lay tyed.
+
+  Sir knight, then sayd Sir Lancelett,
+    Bring me that horse-load hither,
+  And lay him downe, and let him rest;
+    Weel try our force together:
+
+  For, as I understand, thou hast,
+    So far as thou art able,
+  Done great despite and shame unto
+    The knights of the Round Table.
+
+  If thou be of the Table Round,
+    Quoth Tarquin speedilye,
+  Both thee and all thy fellowship
+    I utterly defye.
+
+  That's over much, quoth Lancelott tho,
+    Defend thee by and by.
+  They sett their speares unto their steeds,
+    And eache att other flie.
+
+  They coucht theire speares (their horses ran,
+    As though there had beene thunder),
+  And strucke them each immidst their shields,
+    Wherewith they broke in sunder.
+
+  Their horsses backes brake under them,
+    The knights were both astound:
+  To avoyd their horsses they made haste
+    And light upon the ground.
+
+  They tooke them to their shields full fast,
+    Their swords they drewe out than,
+  With mighty strokes most eagerlye
+    Each at the other ran.
+
+  They wounded were, and bled full sore,
+    They both for breath did stand,
+  And leaning on their swords awhile,
+    Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand,
+
+  And tell to me what I shall aske.
+    Say on, quoth Lancelot tho.
+  Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight
+    That ever I did know:
+
+  And like a knight, that I did hate:
+    Soe that thou be not hee,
+  I will deliver all the rest,
+    And eke accord with thee.
+
+  That is well said, quoth Lancelott;
+    But sith it must be soe,
+  What knight is that thou hatest thus
+    I pray thee to me show.
+
+  His name is Lancelot du Lake,
+    He slew my brother deere;
+  Him I suspect of all the rest:
+    I would I had him here.
+
+  Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne,
+    I am Lancelot du Lake,
+  Now knight of Arthurs Table Round;
+    King Hauds son of Schuwake;
+
+  And I desire thee to do thy worst.
+    Ho, ho, quoth Tarquin tho'
+  One of us two shall ende our lives
+    Before that we do go.
+
+  If thou be Lancelot du Lake,
+    Then welcome shalt thou bee:
+  Wherfore see thou thyself defend,
+    For now defye I thee.
+
+  They buckled them together so,
+    Like unto wild boares rashing;
+  And with their swords and shields they ran
+    At one another slashing:
+
+  The ground besprinkled was with blood:
+    Tarquin began to yield;
+  For he gave backe for wearinesse,
+    And lowe did beare his shield.
+
+  This soone Sir Lancelot espyde,
+    He leapt upon him then,
+  He pull'd him downe upon his knee,
+    And rushing off his helm,
+
+  Forthwith he strucke his necke in two,
+    And, when he had soe done,
+  From prison threescore knights and four
+    Delivered everye one.
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+GIL MORRICE
+
+
+  Gil Morrice was an erles son,
+     His name it waxed wide;
+    It was nae for his great riches,
+  Nor zet his mickle pride;
+  Bot it was for a lady gay,
+    That livd on Carron side.
+
+  Quhair sail I get a bonny boy,
+    That will win hose and shoen;
+  That will gae to Lord Barnards ha',
+    And bid his lady cum?
+  And ze maun rin my errand, Willie;
+    And ze may rin wi' pride;
+  Quhen other boys gae on their foot
+    On horse-back ze sail ride.
+
+  O no! Oh no! my master dear!
+    I dare nae for my life;
+  I'll no gae to the bauld barons,
+    For to triest furth his wife.
+  My bird Willie, my boy Willie;
+    My dear Willie, he sayd:
+  How can ze strive against the stream?
+    For I sall be obeyd.
+
+  Bot, O my master dear! he cryd,
+    In grene wod ze're zour lain;
+  Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede,
+    For fear ze should be tain.
+  Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',
+    Bid hir cum here wi speid:
+  If ze refuse my heigh command,
+    Ill gar zour body bleid.
+
+  Gae bid hir take this gay mantel,
+    'Tis a' gowd hot the hem;
+  Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,
+    And bring nane bot hir lain:
+  And there it is a silken sarke,
+    Hir ain hand sewd the sleive;
+  And bid hir cum to Gill Morice,
+    Speir nae bauld barons leave.
+
+  Yes, I will gae zour black errand,
+    Though it be to zour cost;
+  Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd,
+    In it ze sail find frost.
+  The baron he is a man of might,
+    He neir could bide to taunt,
+  As ze will see before its nicht,
+    How sma' ze hae to vaunt.
+
+  And sen I maun zour errand rin
+    Sae sair against my will,
+  I'se mak a vow and keip it trow,
+    It sall be done for ill.
+  And quhen he came to broken brigue,
+    He bent his bow and swam;
+  And quhen he came to grass growing,
+    Set down his feet and ran.
+
+  And quhen he came to Barnards ha',
+    Would neither chap nor ca':
+  Bot set his bent bow to his breist,
+    And lichtly lap the wa'.
+  He wauld nae tell the man his errand,
+    Though he stude at the gait;
+  Bot straiht into the ha' he cam,
+    Quhair they were set at meit.
+
+  Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame!
+    My message winna waite;
+  Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod
+    Before that it be late.
+  Ze're bidden tak this gay mantel,
+    Tis a' gowd bot the hem:
+  Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode,
+    Ev'n by your sel alane.
+
+  And there it is, a silken sarke,
+    Your ain hand sewd the sleive;
+  Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice:
+    Speir nae bauld barons leave.
+  The lady stamped wi' hir foot,
+    And winked wi' hir ee;
+  Bot a' that she coud say or do,
+    Forbidden he wad nae bee.
+
+  Its surely to my bow'r-woman;
+    It neir could be to me.
+  I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
+    I trow that ze be she.
+  Then up and spack the wylie nurse,
+    (The bairn upon hir knee)
+  If it be cum frae Gill Morice,
+    It's deir welcum to mee.
+
+  Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse,
+    Sae loud I heird zee lee;
+  I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
+    I trow ze be nae shee.
+  Then up and spack the bauld baron,
+    An angry man was hee;
+  He's tain the table wi' his foot,
+    Sae has he wi' his knee;
+  Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish
+    In flinders he gard flee.
+
+  Gae bring a robe of zour cliding,
+    That hings upon the pin;
+  And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,
+    And speik wi' zour lemman.
+  O bide at hame, now Lord Barnard,
+    I warde ze bide at hame;
+  Neir wyte a man for violence,
+    That neir wate ze wi' nane.
+
+  Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode,
+    He whistled and he sang:
+  O what mean a' the folk coming,
+    My mother tarries lang.
+  His hair was like the threeds of gold,
+    Drawne frae Minerva's loome:
+  His lipps like roses drapping dew,
+    His breath was a' perfume.
+
+  His brow was like the mountain snae
+    Gilt by the morning beam:
+  His cheeks like living roses glow:
+    His een like azure stream.  The boy was clad in robes of grene,
+    Sweete as the infant spring:
+  And like the mavis on the bush,
+    He gart the vallies ring.
+
+  The baron came to the grene wode,
+    Wi' mickle dule and care,
+  And there he first spied Gill Morice
+    Kameing his zellow hair:
+  That sweetly wavd around his face,
+    That face beyond compare:
+  He sang sae sweet it might dispel
+    A' rage but fell despair.
+
+  Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice,
+    My lady loed thee weel,
+  The fairest part of my bodie
+    Is blacker than thy heel.
+  Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice,
+    For a' thy great beautie,
+  Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;
+    That head sall gae wi' me.
+
+  Now he has drawn his trusty brand,
+    And slaited on the strae;
+  And thro' Gill Morice' fair body
+    He's gar cauld iron gae.
+  And he has tain Gill Morice's head
+    And set it on a speir;
+  The meanest man in a' his train
+    Has gotten that head to bear.
+
+  And he has tain Gill Morice up,
+    Laid him across his steid,
+  And brocht him to his painted bowr,
+    And laid him on a bed.
+  The lady sat on castil wa',
+    Beheld baith dale and doun;
+  And there she saw Gill Morice' head
+    Cum trailing to the toun.
+
+  Far better I loe that bluidy head,
+    Both and that zellow hair,
+  Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands,
+    As they lig here and thair.
+  And she has tain her Gill Morice,
+    And kissd baith mouth and chin:
+  I was once as fow of Gill Morice,
+    As the hip is o' the stean.
+
+  I got ze in my father's house,
+    Wi' mickle sin and shame;
+  I brocht thee up in gude grene wode,
+    Under the heavy rain.
+  Oft have I by thy cradle sitten,
+    And fondly seen thee sleip;
+  But now I gae about thy grave,
+    The saut tears for to weip.
+
+  And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,
+    And syne his bluidy chin:
+  O better I loe my Gill Morice
+    Than a' my kith and kin!
+  Away, away, ze ill woman,
+    And an il deith mait ze dee:
+  Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son,
+    He'd neir bin slain for mee.
+
+  Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard!
+    Obraid me not for shame!
+  Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart!
+    And put me out o' pain.
+  Since nothing bot Gill Morice head
+    Thy jelous rage could quell,
+  Let that saim hand now tak hir life,
+    That neir to thee did ill.
+
+  To me nae after days nor nichts
+    Will eir be saft or kind;
+  I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,
+    And greet till I am blind.
+  Enouch of blood by me's been spilt,
+    Seek not zour death frae mee;
+  I rather lourd it had been my sel
+    Than eather him or thee.
+
+  With waefo wae I hear zour plaint;
+    Sair, sair I rew the deid,
+  That eir this cursed hand of mine
+    Had gard his body bleid.
+  Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame,
+    Ze neir can heal the wound;
+  Ze see his head upon the speir,
+    His heart's blude on the ground.
+
+  I curse the hand that did the deid,
+    The heart that thocht the ill;
+  The feet that bore me wi' sik speid,
+    The comely zouth to kill.
+  I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,
+    As gin he were mine ain;
+  I'll neir forget the dreiry day
+    On which the zouth was slain.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+The CHILD of ELLE
+
+
+  On yondre hill a castle standes
+    With walles and towres bedight,
+   And yonder lives the Child of Elle,
+  A younge and comely knighte.
+
+  The Child of Elle to his garden went,
+    And stood at his garden pale,
+  Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page
+    Come trippinge downe the dale.
+
+  The Child of Elle he hyed him thence,
+    Y-wis he stoode not stille,
+  And soone he mette faire Emmelines page
+    Come climbinge up the hille.
+
+  Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page,
+    Now Christe thee save and see!
+  Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye,
+    And what may thy tydinges bee?
+
+  My ladye shee is all woe-begone,
+    And the teares they falle from her eyne;
+  And aye she laments the deadlye feude
+    Betweene her house and thine.
+
+  And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe
+    Bedewde with many a teare,
+  And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her,
+    Who loved thee so deare.
+
+  And here shee sends thee a ring of golde
+    The last boone thou mayst have,
+  And biddes thee weare it for her sake,
+    Whan she is layde in grave.
+
+  For, ah! her gentle heart is broke,
+    And in grave soone must shee bee,
+  Sith her father hath chose her a new new love,
+    And forbidde her to think of thee.
+
+  Her father hath brought her a carlish knight,
+    Sir John of the north countraye,
+  And within three dayes she must him wedde,
+    Or he vowes he will her slaye.
+
+  Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
+    And greet thy ladye from mee,
+  And telle her that I her owne true love
+    Will dye, or sette her free.
+
+  Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
+    And let thy fair ladye know
+  This night will I bee at her bowre-windowe,
+    Betide me weale or woe.
+
+  The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne,
+    He neither stint ne stayd
+  Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre,
+    Whan kneeling downe he sayd,
+
+  O ladye, I've been with thine own true love,
+    And he greets thee well by mee;
+  This night will hee bee at thy bowre-windowe,
+    And dye or sett thee free.
+
+  Nowe daye was gone, and night was come,
+    And all were fast asleepe,
+  All save the Ladye Emmeline,
+    Who sate in her bowre to weepe:
+
+  And soone shee heard her true loves voice
+    Lowe whispering at the walle,
+  Awake, awake, my deare ladye,
+    Tis I thy true love call.
+
+  Awake, awake, my ladye deare,
+    Come, mount this faire palfraye:
+  This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe
+    He carrye thee hence awaye.
+
+  Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight,
+    Nowe nay, this may not bee;
+  For aye shold I tint my maiden fame,
+    If alone I should wend with thee.
+
+  O ladye, thou with a knighte so true
+    Mayst safelye wend alone,
+  To my ladye mother I will thee bringe,
+    Where marriage shall make us one.
+
+  "My father he is a baron bolde,
+    Of lynage proude and hye;
+  And what would he saye if his daughter
+    Awaye with a knight should fly
+
+  "Ah! well I wot, he never would rest,
+    Nor his meate should doe him no goode,
+  Until he hath slayne thee, Child of Elle,
+    And scene thy deare hearts bloode."
+
+  O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,
+    And a little space him fro,
+  I would not care for thy cruel father,
+    Nor the worst that he could doe.
+
+  O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,
+    And once without this walle,
+  I would not care for thy cruel father
+    Nor the worst that might befalle.
+
+  Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept,
+    And aye her heart was woe:
+  At length he seized her lilly-white hand,
+    And downe the ladder he drewe:
+
+  And thrice he clasped her to his breste,
+    And kist her tenderlie:
+  The teares that fell from her fair eyes
+    Ranne like the fountayne free.
+
+  Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle,
+    And her on a fair palfraye,
+  And slung his bugle about his necke,
+    And roundlye they rode awaye.
+
+  All this beheard her owne damselle,
+    In her bed whereas shee ley,
+  Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this,
+    Soe I shall have golde and fee.
+
+  Awake, awake, thou baron bolde!
+    Awake, my noble dame!
+  Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle
+    To doe the deede of shame.
+
+  The baron he woke, the baron he rose,
+    And called his merrye men all:
+  "And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte,
+    Thy ladye is carried to thrall."
+
+  Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile,
+    A mile forth of the towne,
+  When she was aware of her fathers men
+    Come galloping over the downe:
+
+  And foremost came the carlish knight,
+    Sir John of the north countraye:
+  "Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitoure,
+    Nor carry that ladye awaye.
+
+  "For she is come of hye lineage,
+    And was of a ladye borne,
+  And ill it beseems thee, a false churl's sonne,
+    To carrye her hence to scorne."
+
+  Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight,
+    Nowe thou doest lye of mee;
+  A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore,
+    Soe never did none by thee
+
+  But light nowe downe, my ladye faire,
+    Light downe, and hold my steed,
+  While I and this discourteous knighte
+    Doe trye this arduous deede.
+
+  But light now downe, my deare ladye,
+    Light downe, and hold my horse;
+  While I and this discourteous knight
+    Doe trye our valour's force.
+
+  Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept,
+    And aye her heart was woe,
+  While twixt her love and the carlish knight
+    Past many a baleful blowe.
+
+  The Child of Elle hee fought so well,
+    As his weapon he waved amaine,
+  That soone he had slaine the carlish knight,
+    And layd him upon the plaine.
+
+  And nowe the baron and all his men
+    Full fast approached nye:
+  Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe
+    Twere nowe no boote to flye.
+
+  Her lover he put his horne to his mouth,
+    And blew both loud and shrill,
+  And soone he saw his owne merry men
+    Come ryding over the hill.
+
+  "Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron,
+    I pray thee hold thy hand,
+  Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts
+    Fast knit in true love's band.
+
+  Thy daughter I have dearly loved
+    Full long and many a day;
+  But with such love as holy kirke
+    Hath freelye sayd wee may.
+
+  O give consent, shee may be mine,
+    And blesse a faithfull paire:
+  My lands and livings are not small,
+    My house and lineage faire:
+
+  My mother she was an earl's daughter,
+    And a noble knyght my sire--
+  The baron he frowned, and turn'd away
+    With mickle dole and ire.
+
+  Fair Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept,
+    And did all tremblinge stand:
+  At lengthe she sprang upon her knee,
+    And held his lifted hand.
+
+  Pardon, my lorde and father deare,
+    This faire yong knyght and mee:
+  Trust me, but for the carlish knyght,
+    I never had fled from thee.
+
+  Oft have you called your Emmeline
+    Your darling and your joye;
+  O let not then your harsh resolves
+    Your Emmeline destroye.
+
+  The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke,
+    And turned his heade asyde
+  To whipe awaye the starting teare
+    He proudly strave to hyde.
+
+  In deepe revolving thought he stoode,
+    And mused a little space;
+  Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounde,
+    With many a fond embrace.
+
+  Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd,
+    And gave her lillye white hand;
+  Here take my deare and only child,
+    And with her half my land:
+
+  Thy father once mine honour wrongde
+    In dayes of youthful pride;
+  Do thou the injurye repayre
+    In fondnesse for thy bride.
+
+  And as thou love her, and hold her deare,
+    Heaven prosper thee and thine:
+  And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee,
+    My lovelye Emmeline.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+
+CHILD WATERS
+
+
+  Childe Waters in his stable stoode
+    And stroakt his milke white steede:
+  To him a fayre yonge ladye came
+    As ever ware womans weede.
+
+  Sayes, Christ you save, good Childe Waters;
+    Sayes, Christ you save, and see:
+  My girdle of gold that was too longe,
+    Is now too short for mee.
+
+  And all is with one chyld of yours,
+    I feel sturre att my side:
+  My gowne of greene it is too straighte;
+    Before, it was too wide.
+
+  If the child be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd,
+    Be mine, as you tell mee;
+  Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    Take them your owne to bee.
+
+  If the childe be mine, fair Ellen, he sayd,
+    Be mine, as you doe sweare;
+  Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    And make that child your heyre.
+
+  Shee saies, I had rather have one kisse,
+    Child Waters, of thy mouth;
+  Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    That laye by north and south.
+
+  And I had rather have one twinkling,
+    Childe Waters, of thine ee;
+  Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    To take them mine owne to bee.
+
+  To morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde
+    Farr into the north countrie;
+  The fairest lady that I can find,
+    Ellen, must goe with mee.
+
+  'Thoughe I am not that lady fayre,
+    'Yet let me go with thee:'
+  And ever I pray you, Child Waters,
+    Your foot-page let me bee.
+
+  If you will my foot-page be, Ellen,
+    As you doe tell to mee;
+  Then you must cut your gowne of greene,
+    An inch above your knee:
+
+  Soe must you doe your yellow lockes,
+    An inch above your ee:
+  You must tell no man what is my name;
+    My foot-page then you shall bee.
+
+  Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode,
+    Ran barefoote by his side;
+  Yett was he never soe courteous a knighte,
+    To say, Ellen, will you ryde?
+
+  Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode,
+    Ran barefoote thorow the broome;
+  Yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte,
+    To say, put on your shoone.
+
+  Ride softlye, shee sayd, O Childe Waters,
+    Why doe you ryde soe fast?
+  The childe, which is no mans but thine,
+    My bodye itt will brast.
+
+  Hee sayth, seeth thou yonder water, Ellen,
+    That flows from bank to brimme?--
+  I trust to God, O Child Waters,
+    You never will see mee swimme.
+
+  But when shee came to the waters side,
+    Shee sayled to the chinne:
+  Except the Lord of heaven be my speed,
+    Now must I learne to swimme.
+
+  The salt waters bare up her clothes;
+    Our Ladye bare upp her chinne:
+  Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord,
+    To see faire Ellen swimme.
+
+  And when shee over the water was,
+    Shee then came to his knee:
+  He said, Come hither, thou fair Ellen,
+    Loe yonder what I see.
+
+  Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?
+    Of redd gold shines the yate;
+  Of twenty foure faire ladyes there,
+    The fairest is my mate.
+
+  Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?
+    Of redd gold shines the towre:
+  There are twenty four fair ladyes there,
+    The fairest is my paramoure.
+
+  I see the hall now, Child Waters,
+    Of redd golde shines the yate:
+  God give you good now of yourselfe,
+    And of your worthye mate.
+
+  I see the hall now, Child Waters,
+    Of redd gold shines the towre:
+  God give you good now of yourselfe,
+    And of your paramoure.
+
+  There twenty four fayre ladyes were
+    A playing att the ball:
+  And Ellen the fairest ladye there,
+    Must bring his steed to the stall.
+
+  There twenty four fayre ladyes were
+    A playinge at the chesse;
+  And Ellen the fayrest ladye there,
+    Must bring his horse to gresse.
+
+  And then bespake Childe Waters sister,
+    These were the wordes said shee:
+  You have the prettyest foot-page, brother,
+    That ever I saw with mine ee.
+
+  But that his bellye it is soe bigg,
+    His girdle goes wonderous hie:
+  And let him, I pray you, Childe Wateres,
+    Goe into the chamber with mee.
+
+  It is not fit for a little foot-page,
+    That has run throughe mosse and myre,
+  To go into the chamber with any ladye,
+    That weares soe riche attyre.
+
+  It is more meete for a litle foot-page,
+    That has run throughe mosse and myre,
+  To take his supper upon his knee,
+    And sitt downe by the kitchen fyer.
+
+  But when they had supped every one,
+    To bedd they tooke theyr waye:
+  He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page,
+    And hearken what I saye.
+
+  Goe thee downe into yonder towne,
+    And low into the street;
+  The fayrest ladye that thou can finde,
+
+    Hyer her in mine armes to sleepe,
+  And take her up in thine armes twaine,
+    For filinge of her feete.
+
+  Ellen is gone into the towne,
+    And low into the streete:
+  The fairest ladye that she cold find,
+    Shee hyred in his armes to sleepe;
+  And tooke her up in her armes twayne,
+    For filing of her feete.
+
+  I pray you nowe, good Child Waters,
+    Let mee lye at your bedds feete:
+  For there is noe place about this house,
+    Where I may 'saye a sleepe.
+
+  'He gave her leave, and faire Ellen
+    'Down at his beds feet laye:'
+  This done the nighte drove on apace,
+    And when it was neare the daye,
+
+  Hee sayd, Rise up, my litle foot-page,
+    Give my steede corne and haye;
+  And soe doe thou the good black oats,
+    To carry mee better awaye.
+
+  Up then rose the faire Ellen,
+    And gave his steede corne and hay:
+  And soe shee did the good blacke oats,
+    To carry him the better away.
+
+  Shee leaned her backe to the manger side,
+    And grievouslye did groane:
+  Shee leaned her backe to the manger side,
+    And there shee made her moane.
+
+  And that beheard his mother deere,
+    Shee heard her there monand.
+  Shee sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Waters,
+    I think thee a cursed man.
+
+  For in thy stable is a ghost,
+    That grievouslye doth grone:
+  Or else some woman laboures of childe,
+    She is soe woe-begone.
+
+  Up then rose Childe Waters soon,
+    And did on his shirte of silke;
+  And then he put on his other clothes,
+    On his body as white as milke.
+
+  And when he came to the stable dore,
+    Full still there he did stand,
+  That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellen
+    Howe shee made her monand.
+
+  Shee sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deere child,
+    Lullabye, dere child, dere;
+  I wold thy father were a king,
+    Thy mother layd on a biere.
+
+  Peace now, he said, good faire Ellen,
+    Be of good cheere, I praye;
+  And the bridal and the churching both
+    Shall bee upon one day.
+
+
+
+
+[Image]
+
+KING EDWARD IV & THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH
+
+
+  In summer time, when leaves grow greene,
+     And blossoms bedecke the tree,
+  King Edward wolde a hunting ryde,
+    Some pastime for to see.
+
+  With hawke and hounde he made him bowne,
+    With horne, and eke with bowe;
+  To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye,
+    With all his lordes a rowe.
+
+  And he had ridden ore dale and downe
+    By eight of clocke in the day,
+  When he was ware of a bold tanner,
+    Come ryding along the waye.
+
+  A fayre russet coat the tanner had on
+    Fast buttoned under his chin,
+  And under him a good cow-hide,
+    And a marc of four shilling.
+
+  Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all,
+    Under the grene wood spraye;
+  And I will wend to yonder fellowe,
+    To weet what he will saye.
+
+  God speede, God speede thee, said our king.
+    Thou art welcome, Sir, sayd hee.
+  "The readyest waye to Drayton Basset
+    I praye thee to shew to mee."
+
+  "To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe,
+    Fro the place where thou dost stand?
+  The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto,
+    Turne in upon thy right hand."
+
+  That is an unreadye waye, sayd our king,
+    Thou doest but jest, I see;
+  Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye,
+    And I pray thee wend with mee.
+
+  Away with a vengeance! quoth the tanner:
+    I hold thee out of thy witt:
+  All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare,
+    And I am fasting yett.
+
+  "Go with me downe to Drayton Basset,
+    No daynties we will spare;
+  All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best,
+    And I will paye thy fare."
+
+  Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde,
+    Thou payest no fare of mine:
+  I trowe I've more nobles in my purse,
+    Than thou hast pence in thine.
+
+  God give thee joy of them, sayd the king,
+    And send them well to priefe.
+  The tanner wolde faine have beene away,
+    For he weende he had beene a thiefe.
+
+  What art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellowe,
+    Of thee I am in great feare,
+  For the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back,
+    Might beseeme a lord to weare.
+
+  I never stole them, quoth our king,
+    I tell you, Sir, by the roode.
+  "Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth,
+    And standest in midds of thy goode."
+
+  What tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge,
+    As you ryde farre and neare?
+  "I heare no tydinges, Sir, by the masse,
+    But that cowe-hides are deare."
+
+  "Cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those?
+     I marvell what they bee?"
+  What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd;
+    I carry one under mee.
+
+  What craftsman art thou, said the king,
+    I pray thee tell me trowe.
+  "I am a barker, Sir, by my trade;
+    Nowe tell me what art thou?"
+
+  I am a poor courtier, Sir, quoth he,
+    That am forth of service worne;
+  And faine I wolde thy prentise bee,
+    Thy cunninge for to learne.
+
+  Marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde,
+    That thou my prentise were:
+  Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne
+    By fortye shilling a yere.
+
+  Yet one thinge wolde I, sayd our king,
+    If thou wilt not seeme strange:
+  Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare,
+    Yet with thee I fain wold change.
+
+  "Why if with me thou faine wilt change,
+    As change full well maye wee,
+  By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe
+    I will have some boot of thee."
+
+  That were against reason, sayd the king,
+    I sweare, so mote I thee:
+  My horse is better than thy mare,
+    And that thou well mayst see.
+
+  "Yea, Sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild,
+    And softly she will fare:
+  Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss;
+    Aye skipping here and theare."
+
+  What boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd;
+    Now tell me in this stound.
+  "Noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye,
+    But a noble in gold so round.
+
+  "Here's twentye groates of white moneye,
+    Sith thou will have it of mee."
+  I would have sworne now, quoth the tanner,
+    Thou hadst not had one pennie.
+
+  But since we two have made a change,
+    A change we must abide,
+  Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare,
+    Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.
+
+  I will not have it, sayd the kynge,
+    I sweare, so mought I thee;
+  Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare,
+    If thou woldst give it to mee.
+
+  The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide,
+    That of the cow was bilt;
+  And threwe it upon the king's sadelle,
+    That was soe fayrelye gilte.
+  "Now help me up, thou fine fellowe,
+    'Tis time that I were gone:
+  When I come home to Gyllian my wife,
+    Sheel say I am a gentilmon."
+
+  The king he tooke him up by the legge;
+    The tanner a f----- lett fall.
+  Nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the king,
+    Thy courtesye is but small.
+
+  When the tanner he was in the kinges sadelle,
+    And his foote in the stirrup was;
+  He marvelled greatlye in his minde,
+    Whether it were golde or brass.
+
+  But when the steede saw the cows taile wagge,
+    And eke the blacke cowe-horne;
+  He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne,
+    As the devill had him borne.
+
+  The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat,
+    And held by the pummil fast:
+  At length the tanner came tumbling downe;
+    His necke he had well-nye brast.
+
+  Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd,
+    With mee he shall not byde.
+  "My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe,
+    But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide.
+
+  Yet if againe thou faine woldst change,
+    As change full well may wee,
+  By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tanner,
+    I will have some boote of thee."
+
+  What boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd,
+    Nowe tell me in this stounde.
+  "Noe pence nor halfpence, Sir, by my faye,
+    But I will have twentye pound."
+
+  "Here's twentye groates out of my purse;
+    And twentye I have of thine:
+  And I have one more, which we will spend
+    Together at the wine."
+
+  The king set a bugle home to his mouthe,
+    And blewe both loude and shrille:
+  And soone came lords, and soone came knights,
+    Fast ryding over the hille.
+
+  Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde,
+    That ever I sawe this daye!
+  Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes     Will beare my
+cowe-hide away.
+
+  They are no thieves, the king replyde,
+    I sweare, soe mote I thee:
+  But they are the lords of the north countrey,
+    Here come to hunt with mee.
+
+  And soone before our king they came,
+    And knelt downe on the grounde:
+  Then might the tanner have beene awaye,
+    He had lever than twentye pounde.
+
+  A coller, a coller, here: sayd the king,
+    A coller he loud gan crye:
+  Then woulde he lever than twentye pound,
+    He had not beene so nighe.
+
+  A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd,
+    I trowe it will breed sorrowe:
+  After a coller cometh a halter,
+    I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrowe.
+
+  Be not afraid, tanner, said our king;
+    I tell thee, so mought I thee,
+  Lo here I make thee the best esquire
+    That is in the North countrie.
+
+  For Plumpton-parke I will give thee,
+    With tenements faire beside:
+  'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,
+    To maintaine thy good cowe-hide.
+
+  Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde,
+    For the favour thou hast me showne;
+  If ever thou comest to merry Tamworth,
+    Neates leather shall clout thy shoen.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+
+
+  The king sits in Dumferling toune,
+    Drinking the blude-reid wine:
+  O quhar will I get guid sailor,
+    To sail this schip of mine.
+
+  Up and spak an eldern knicht,
+    Sat at the kings richt kne:
+  Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,
+    That sails upon the se.
+
+  The king has written a braid letter,
+    And signd it wi' his hand;
+  And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
+    Was walking on the sand.
+
+  The first line that Sir Patrick red,
+    A loud lauch lauched he:
+  The next line that Sir Patrick red,
+    The teir blinded his ee.
+
+  O quha is this has don this deid,
+    This ill deid don to me;
+  To send me out this time o' the zeir,
+    To sail upon the se.
+
+  Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,
+    Our guid schip sails the morne,
+  O say na sae, my master deir,
+    For I feir a deadlie storme.
+
+  Late late yestreen I saw the new moone
+    Wi' the auld moone in hir arme;
+  And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
+    That we will com to harme.
+
+  O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
+    To weet their cork-heild schoone;
+  Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
+    Thair hats they swam aboone.
+
+  O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit
+    Wi' thair fans into their hand,
+  Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens
+    Cum sailing to the land.
+
+  O lang, lang, may the ladies stand
+    Wi' thair gold kems in their hair,
+  Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
+    For they'll se thame na mair.
+
+  Have owre, have owre to Aberdour,
+    It's fiftie fadom deip:
+  And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens,
+    Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.
+
+
+
+
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+
+
+  It was intill a pleasant time,
+    Upon a simmer's day,
+  The noble Earl of Mar's daughter
+  Went forth to sport and play.
+
+  As thus she did amuse hersell,
+    Below a green aik tree,
+  There she saw a sprightly doo
+    Set on a tower sae hie.
+
+  "O cow-me-doo, my love sae true,
+    If ye'll come down to me,
+  Ye 'se hae a cage o guid red gowd
+    Instead o simple tree:
+
+  "I'll put growd hingers roun your cage,
+    And siller roun your wa;
+  I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird
+    As ony o them a'."
+
+  But she hadnae these words well spoke,
+    Nor yet these words well said,
+  Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower
+    And lighted on her head.
+
+  Then she has brought this pretty bird
+    Hame to her bowers and ba,
+  And made him shine as fair a bird
+    As ony o them a'.
+
+  When day was gane, and night was come,
+    About the evening tide,
+  This lady spied a sprightly youth
+    Stand straight up by her side.
+
+  "From whence came ye, young man?" she said;
+    "That does surprise me sair;
+  My door was bolted right secure,
+    What way hae ye come here?"
+
+  "O had your tongue, ye lady fair,
+    Lat a' your folly be;
+  Mind ye not on your turtle-doo
+    Last day ye brought wi thee?"
+
+  "O tell me mair, young man," she said,
+    "This does surprise me now;
+  What country hae ye come frae?
+    What pedigree are you?"
+
+  "My mither lives on foreign isles,
+    She has nae mair but me;
+  She is a queen o wealth and state,
+    And birth and high degree.
+
+  "Likewise well skilld in magic spells,
+    As ye may plainly see,
+  And she transformd me to yon shape,
+    To charm such maids as thee.
+
+  "I am a doo the live-lang day,
+    A sprightly youth at night;
+  This aye gars me appear mair fair
+    In a fair maiden's sight.
+
+  "And it was but this verra day
+    That I came ower the sea;
+  Your lovely face did me enchant;
+    I'll live and dee wi thee."
+
+  "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,
+    Nae mair frae me ye 'se gae;
+  That's never my intent, my luve,
+    As ye said, it shall be sae."
+
+  "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,
+    It's time to gae to bed;"
+  "Wi a' my heart, my dear marrow,
+    It's be as ye hae said."
+
+  Then he has staid in bower wi her
+    For sax lang years and ane,
+  Till sax young sons to him she bare,
+    And the seventh she's brought hame.
+
+  But aye as ever a child was born
+    He carried them away,
+  And brought them to his mither's care,
+    As fast as he coud fly.
+
+  Thus he has staid in bower wi her
+    For twenty years and three;
+  There came a lord o high renown
+    To court this fair ladie.
+
+  But still his proffer she refused,
+    And a' his presents too;
+  Says, I'm content to live alane
+    Wi my bird, Cow-me-doo.
+
+  Her father sware a solemn oath
+    Amang the nobles all,
+  "The morn, or ere I eat or drink,
+    This bird I will gar kill."
+
+  The bird was sitting in his cage,
+    And heard what they did say;
+  And when he found they were dismist,
+    Says, Wae's me for this day!
+
+  "Before that I do langer stay,
+    And thus to be forlorn,
+  I'll gang unto my mither's bower,
+    Where I was bred and born."
+
+  Then Cow-me-doo took flight and flew
+    Beyond the raging sea,
+  And lighted near his mither's castle,
+    On a tower o gowd sae hie.
+
+  As his mither was wauking out,
+    To see what she coud see,
+  And there she saw her little son,
+    Set on the tower sae hie.
+
+  "Get dancers here to dance," she said,
+    "And minstrells for to play;
+  For here's my young son, Florentine,
+    Come here wi me to stay."
+
+  "Get nae dancers to dance, mither,
+    Nor minstrells for to play,
+  For the mither o my seven sons,
+    The morn's her wedding-day."
+
+  "O tell me, tell me, Florentine,
+    Tell me, and tell me true,
+  Tell me this day without a flaw,
+    What I will do for you."
+
+  "Instead of dancers to dance, mither,
+    Or minstrells for to play,
+  Turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men
+    Like storks in feathers gray;
+
+  "My seven sons in seven swans,
+    Aboon their heads to flee;
+  And I mysell a gay gos-hawk,
+    A bird o high degree."
+
+  Then sichin said the queen hersell,
+    "That thing's too high for me;"
+  But she applied to an auld woman,
+    Who had mair skill than she.
+
+  Instead o dancers to dance a dance,
+    Or minstrells for to play,
+  Four-and-twenty wall-wight men
+    Turnd birds o feathers gray;
+
+  Her seven sons in seven swans,
+    Aboon their heads to flee;
+  And he himsell a gay gos-hawk,
+    A bird o high degree.
+
+  This flock o birds took flight and flew
+    Beyond the raging sea,
+  And landed near the Earl Mar's castle,
+    Took shelter in every tree.
+
+  They were a flock o pretty birds,
+    Right comely to be seen;
+  The people viewed them wi surprise,
+    As they dancd on the green.
+
+  These birds ascended frae the tree
+    And lighted on the ha,
+  And at the last wi force did flee
+    Amang the nobles a'.
+
+  The storks there seized some o the men,
+    They coud neither fight nor flee;
+  The swans they bound the bride's best man
+    Below a green aik tree.
+
+  They lighted next on maidens fair,
+    Then on the bride's own head,
+  And wi the twinkling o an ee
+    The bride and them were fled.
+
+  There's ancient men at weddings been
+    For sixty years or more,
+  But sic a curious wedding-day
+    They never saw before.
+
+  For naething coud the companie do.
+    Nor naething coud they say
+  But they saw a flock o pretty birds
+    That took their bride away.
+
+  When that Earl Mar he came to know
+    Where his dochter did stay,
+  He signd a bond o unity,
+    And visits now they pay.
+
+
+
+
+EDWARD, EDWARD.
+
+
+  Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid,
+                                Edward, Edward?
+  Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid?
+            And quhy sae sad gang zee, O?
+  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
+                                 Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid:
+                   And I had nae mair bot hee, O.
+
+  Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
+                                  Edward, Edward.
+  Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
+                    My deir son I tell thee, O.
+  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
+                                  Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
+                   That erst was sae fair and free, O.
+
+  Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
+                                  Edward, Edward;
+  Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
+                   Sum other dule ze drie, O.
+  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
+                                  Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
+                   Alas! and wae is mee, O!
+
+  And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that,
+                               Edward, Edward?
+  And quhatten penance will ze drie for that?
+                 My deir son, now tell mee, O.
+  He set my feit in zonder boat,
+                                Mither, mither:
+  He set my feit in zonder boat,
+                    And He fare ovir the sea, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
+                                 Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
+                  That were sae fair to see, O?
+  He let thame stand til they doun fa',
+                                   Mither, mither:
+  He let thame stand til they doun fa',
+                    For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
+                                      Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
+                      Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O?
+  The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,
+                                     Mither, mither;
+  The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,
+                   For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir,
+                                 Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir?
+                    My deir son, now tell me, O.
+  The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir,
+                                 Mither, mither:
+  The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir,
+                 Sic counseils ze gave to me, O.
+
+
+
+KING LEIR & HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+
+
+  King Leir once ruled in this land
+    With princely power and peace;
+  And had all things with hearts content,
+    That might his joys increase.
+  Amongst those things that nature gave,
+    Three daughters fair had he,
+  So princely seeming beautiful,
+    As fairer could not be.
+
+  So on a time it pleas'd the king
+    A question thus to move,
+  Which of his daughters to his grace
+    Could shew the dearest love:
+  For to my age you bring content,
+    Quoth he, then let me hear,
+  Which of you three in plighted troth
+    The kindest will appear.
+
+  To whom the eldest thus began;
+    Dear father, mind, quoth she,
+  Before your face, to do you good,
+    My blood shall render'd be:
+  And for your sake my bleeding heart
+    Shall here be cut in twain,
+  Ere that I see your reverend age
+    The smallest grief sustain.
+
+  And so will I, the second said;
+    Dear father, for your sake,
+  The worst of all extremities
+    I'll gently undertake:
+  And serve your highness night and day
+    With diligence and love;
+  That sweet content and quietness
+    Discomforts may remove.
+
+  In doing so, you glad my soul,
+    The aged king reply'd;
+  But what sayst thou, my youngest girl,
+    How is thy love ally'd?
+  My love (quoth young Cordelia then)
+    Which to your grace I owe,
+  Shall be the duty of a child,
+    And that is all I'll show.
+
+  And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he,
+    Than doth thy duty bind?
+  I well perceive thy love is small,
+    When as no more I find.
+  Henceforth I banish thee my court,
+    Thou art no child of mine;
+  Nor any part of this my realm
+    By favour shall be thine.
+
+  Thy elder sisters loves are more
+    Then well I can demand,
+  To whom I equally bestow
+    My kingdome and my land,
+  My pompal state and all my goods,
+    That lovingly I may
+  With those thy sisters be maintain'd
+    Until my dying day.
+
+  Thus flattering speeches won renown,
+    By these two sisters here;
+  The third had causeless banishment,
+    Yet was her love more dear:
+  For poor Cordelia patiently
+    Went wandring up and down,
+  Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,
+    Through many an English town:
+
+  Untill at last in famous France
+    She gentler fortunes found;
+  Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd
+    The fairest on the ground:
+  Where when the king her virtues heard,
+    And this fair lady seen,
+  With full consent of all his court
+    He made his wife and queen.
+
+  Her father king Leir this while
+    With his two daughters staid:
+  Forgetful of their promis'd loves,
+    Full soon the same decay'd;
+  And living in queen Ragan's court,
+    The eldest of the twain,
+  She took from him his chiefest means,
+    And most of all his train.
+
+  For whereas twenty men were wont
+    To wait with bended knee:
+  She gave allowance but to ten,
+    And after scarce to three;
+  Nay, one she thought too much for him;
+    So took she all away,
+  In hope that in her court, good king,
+    He would no longer stay.
+
+  Am I rewarded thus, quoth he,
+    In giving all I have
+  Unto my children, and to beg
+    For what I lately gave?
+  I'll go unto my Gonorell:
+    My second child, I know,
+  Will be more kind and pitiful,
+    And will relieve my woe.
+
+  Full fast he hies then to her court;
+    Where when she heard his moan
+  Return'd him answer, That she griev'd
+    That all his means were gone:
+  But no way could relieve his wants;
+    Yet if that he would stay
+  Within her kitchen, he should have
+    What scullions gave away.
+
+  When he had heard, with bitter tears,
+    He made his answer then;
+  In what I did let me be made
+    Example to all men.
+  I will return again, quoth he,
+    Unto my Ragan's court;
+  She will not use me thus, I hope,
+    But in a kinder sort.
+
+  Where when he came, she gave command
+    To drive him thence away:
+  When he was well within her court
+    (She said) he would not stay.
+  Then back again to Gonorell
+    The woeful king did hie,
+  That in her kitchen he might have
+    What scullion boy set by.
+
+  But there of that he was deny'd,
+    Which she had promis'd late:
+  For once refusing, he should not
+    Come after to her gate.
+  Thus twixt his daughters, for relief
+    He wandred up and down;
+  Being glad to feed on beggars food,
+    That lately wore a crown.
+
+  And calling to remembrance then
+    His youngest daughters words,
+  That said the duty of a child
+    Was all that love affords:
+  But doubting to repair to her,
+    Whom he had banish'd so,
+  Grew frantick mad; for in his mind
+    He bore the wounds of woe:
+
+  Which made him rend his milk-white locks,
+    And tresses from his head,
+  And all with blood bestain his cheeks,
+    With age and honour spread.
+  To hills and woods and watry founts
+    He made his hourly moan,
+  Till hills and woods and sensless things,
+    Did seem to sigh and groan.
+
+  Even thus possest with discontents,
+    He passed o're to France,
+  In hopes from fair Cordelia there,
+    To find some gentler chance;
+  Most virtuous dame! which when she heard,
+    Of this her father's grief,
+  As duty bound, she quickly sent
+    Him comfort and relief:
+  And by a train of noble peers,
+    In brave and gallant sort,
+  She gave in charge he should be brought
+    To Aganippus' court;
+  Whose royal king, with noble mind
+    So freely gave consent,
+  To muster up his knights at arms,
+    To fame and courage bent.
+
+  And so to England came with speed,
+    To repossesse king Leir
+  And drive his daughters from their thrones
+    By his Cordelia dear.
+  Where she, true-hearted noble queen,
+    Was in the battel slain;
+  Yet he, good king, in his old days,
+    Possest his crown again.
+
+  But when he heard Cordelia's death,
+    Who died indeed for love
+  Of her dear father, in whose cause
+    She did this battle move;
+  He swooning fell upon her breast,
+    From whence he never parted:
+  But on her bosom left his life,
+    That was so truly hearted.
+
+  The lords and nobles when they saw
+    The end of these events,
+  The other sisters unto death
+    They doomed by consents;
+  And being dead, their crowns they left
+    Unto the next of kin:
+  Thus have you seen the fall of pride,
+    And disobedient sin.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+HYND HORN
+
+
+  "Hynde Horn's bound, love, and Hynde Horn's free;
+  Whare was ye born? or frae what cuntrie?"
+
+  "In gude greenwud whare I was born,
+  And all my friends left me forlorn.
+
+  "I gave my love a gay gowd wand,
+  That was to rule oure all Scotland.
+
+  "My love gave me a silver ring,
+  That was to rule abune aw thing.
+
+  "Whan that ring keeps new in hue,
+  Ye may ken that your love loves you.
+
+  "Whan that ring turns pale and wan,
+  Ye may ken that your love loves anither man."
+
+  He hoisted up his sails, and away sailed he
+  Till he cam to a foreign cuntree.
+
+  Whan he lookit to his ring, it was turnd pale and wan;
+  Says, I wish I war at hame again.
+
+  He hoisted up his sails, and hame sailed he
+  Until he cam till his ain cuntree.
+
+  The first ane that he met with,
+  It was with a puir auld beggar-man.
+
+  "What news? what news, my puir auld man?
+  What news hae ye got to tell to me?"
+
+  "Na news, na news," the puir man did say,
+  "But this is our queen's wedding-day."
+
+  "Ye'll lend me your begging-weed,
+  And I'll lend you my riding-steed."
+    "My begging-weed is na for thee,
+  Your riding-steed is na for me."
+
+  He has changed wi the puir auld beggar-man.
+
+  "What is the way that ye use to gae?
+  And what are the words that ye beg wi?"
+
+  "Whan ye come to yon high hill,
+  Ye'll draw your bent bow nigh until.
+
+  "Whan ye come to yon town-end,
+  Ye'll lat your bent bow low fall doun.
+
+  "Ye'll seek meat for St Peter, ask for St Paul,
+  And seek for the sake of your Hynde Horn all.
+
+  "But tak ye frae nane o them aw
+  Till ye get frae the bonnie bride hersel O."
+
+  Whan he cam to yon high hill,
+  He drew his bent bow nigh until.
+
+  And when he cam to yon toun-end,
+  He loot his bent bow low fall doun.
+
+  He sought for St Peter, he askd for St Paul,
+  And he sought for the sake of his Hynde Horn all.
+
+  But he took na frae ane o them aw
+  Till he got frae the bonnie bride hersel O.
+
+  The bride cam tripping doun the stair,
+  Wi the scales o red gowd on her hair.
+
+  Wi a glass o red wine in her hand,
+  To gie to the puir beggar-man.
+
+  Out he drank his glass o wine,
+  Into it he dropt the ring.
+
+  "Got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land,
+  Or got ye't aff a drownd man's hand?"
+
+  "I got na't by sea, I got na't by land,
+  Nor gat I it aff a drownd man's hand;
+
+  "But I got it at my wooing,
+  And I'll gie it to your wedding."
+
+  "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my head,
+  I'll follow you, and beg my bread.
+
+  "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my hair,
+  I'll follow you for evermair."
+
+  She has tane the scales o gowd frae her head,
+  She's followed him, to beg her bread.
+
+  She has tane the scales o gowd frae her hair,
+  And she has followd him evermair.
+
+  Atween the kitchen and the ha,
+  There he loot his cloutie cloak fa.
+
+  The red gowd shined oure them aw,
+  And the bride frae the bridegroom was stown awa.
+
+
+
+
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+
+
+  Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,
+  Because he fought for Freedom and the stricken Negro slave;
+  Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,
+  But his soul is marching on.
+
+                           _Chorus_
+
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       His soul is marching on.
+
+  He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true;
+  His little patriot band into a noble army grew;
+  He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true,
+  And his soul is marching on.
+
+  'Twas not till John Brown lost his life, arose in all its might,
+  The army of the Union men that won the fearful fight;
+  But tho' the glad event, oh! it never met his sight,
+  Still his soul is marching on.
+
+  John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above,
+  Where live the happy spirits in their harmony and love,
+  John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above,
+  And his soul is marching on.
+
+
+
+ TIPPERARY
+
+
+  Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day,
+  As the streets are paved with gold, sure everyone was gay;
+  Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square,
+  Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:--
+
+_Chorus_
+
+  "It's a long way to Tipperary,
+  It's a long way to go;
+  It's a long way to Tipperary,
+  To the sweetest girl I know!
+  Good-bye Piccadilly,
+  Farewell, Leicester Square,
+  It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
+  But my heart's right there!"
+
+  Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O',
+  Saying, "Should you not receive it, write and let me know!
+  "If I make mistakes in 'spelling,' Molly dear,' said he,
+  "Remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me."
+
+  Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy O',
+  Saying, "Mike Maloney wants to marry me, and so
+  Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you'll be to blame,
+  For love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the same!"
+
+
+
+
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+
+
+  There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,
+    And he was a squires son:
+  He loved the bayliffes daughter deare,
+    That lived in Islington.
+
+  Yet she was coye, and would not believe
+    That he did love her soe,
+  Noe nor at any time would she
+    Any countenance to him showe.
+
+  But when his friendes did understand
+    His fond and foolish minde,
+  They sent him up to faire London
+    An apprentice for to binde.
+
+  And when he had been seven long yeares,
+    And never his love could see:
+  Many a teare have I shed for her sake,
+    When she little thought of mee.
+
+  Then all the maids of Islington
+    Went forth to sport and playe,
+  All but the bayliffes daughter deare;
+    She secretly stole awaye.
+
+  She pulled off her gowne of greene,
+    And put on ragged attire,
+  And to faire London she would goe
+    Her true love to enquire.
+
+  And as she went along the high road,
+    The weather being hot and drye,
+  She sat her downe upon a green bank,
+    And her true love came riding bye.
+
+  She started up, with a colour soe redd,
+    Catching hold of his bridle-reine;
+  One penny, one penny, kind Sir, she sayd,
+    Will ease me of much paine.
+
+  Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,
+    Praye tell me where you were borne:
+  At Islington, kind Sir, sayd shee,
+    Where I have had many a scorne.
+
+  I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,
+    O tell me, whether you knowe
+  The bayliffes daughter of Islington:
+    She is dead, Sir, long agoe.
+
+  If she be dead, then take my horse,
+    My saddle and bridle also;
+  For I will into some far countrye,
+    Where noe man shall me knowe.
+
+  O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe,
+    She standeth by thy side;
+  She is here alive, she is not dead,
+    And readye to be thy bride.
+
+  O farewell griefe, and welcome joye,
+    Ten thousand times therefore;
+  For nowe I have founde mine owne true love,
+    Whom I thought I should never see more.
+
+
+
+
+THE THREE RAVENS
+
+
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+    Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+    With a downe
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+  They were as blacke as they might be
+    With a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe
+
+  The one of them said to his mate,
+  "Where shall we our breakefast take?"
+
+  "Downe in yonder greene field,
+  There lies a knight slain vnder his shield.
+
+  "His hounds they lie downe at his feete,
+  So well they can their master keepe.
+
+  "His haukes they flie so eagerly,
+  There's no fowle dare him come nie."
+
+  Downe there comes a fallow doe,
+  As great with yong as she might goe.
+
+  She lift up his bloudy hed,
+  And kist his wounds that were so red.
+
+  She got him up upon her backe,
+  And carried him to earthen lake.
+
+  She buried him before the prime,
+  She was dead herselfe ere even-song time.
+
+  God send every gentleman,
+  Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman.
+
+
+
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+
+
+  The pauky auld Carle come ovir the lee
+  Wi' mony good-eens and days to mee,
+  Saying, Good wife, for zour courtesie,
+    Will ze lodge a silly poor man?
+  The night was cauld, the carle was wat,
+  And down azont the ingle he sat;
+  My dochtors shoulders he gan to clap,
+    And cadgily ranted and sang.
+
+  O wow! quo he, were I as free,
+  As first when I saw this countrie,
+  How blyth and merry wad I bee!
+    And I wad nevir think lang.
+  He grew canty, and she grew fain;
+  But little did her auld minny ken
+  What thir slee twa togither were say'n,
+    When wooing they were sa thrang.
+
+  And O! quo he, ann ze were as black,
+  As evir the crown of your dadyes hat,
+  Tis I wad lay thee by my backe,
+    And awa wi' me thou sould gang.
+  And O! quoth she, ann I were as white,
+  As evir the snaw lay on the dike,
+  Ild dead me braw, and lady-like,
+    And awa with thee Ild gang.
+
+  Between them twa was made a plot;
+  They raise a wee before the cock,
+  And wyliely they shot the lock,
+    And fast to the bent are they gane.
+  Up the morn the auld wife raise,
+  And at her leisure put on her claiths,
+  Syne to the servants bed she gaes
+    To speir for the silly poor man.
+
+  She gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay,
+  The strae was cauld, he was away,
+  She clapt her hands, cryd, Dulefu' day!
+    For some of our geir will be gane.
+  Some ran to coffer, and some to kist,
+  But nought was stown that could be mist.
+  She dancid her lane, cryd, Praise be blest,
+    I have lodgd a leal poor man.
+
+  Since naithings awa, as we can learn,
+  The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn,
+  Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn,
+    And bid her come quickly ben.
+  The servant gaed where the dochter lay,
+  The sheets was cauld, she was away,
+  And fast to her goodwife can say,
+    Shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man.
+
+  O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin,
+  And haste ze, find these traitors agen;
+  For shees be burnt, and hees be slein,
+    The wearyfou gaberlunzie-man.
+  Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit
+  The wife was wood, and out o' her wit;
+  She could na gang, nor yet could sit,
+    But ay did curse and did ban.
+
+  Mean time far hind out owre the lee,
+  For snug in a glen, where nane could see,
+  The twa, with kindlie sport and glee
+    Cut frae a new cheese a whang.
+  The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith,
+  To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith.
+  Quo she, to leave thee, I will laith,
+    My winsome gaberlunzie-man.
+
+  O kend my minny I were wi' zou,
+  Illfardly wad she crook her mou,
+  Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow,
+    Aftir the gaberlunzie-mon.
+  My dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge;
+  And hae na learnt the beggars tonge,
+  To follow me frae toun to toun,
+    And carrie the gaberlunzie on.
+
+  Wi' kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread,
+  And spindles and whorles for them wha need,
+  Whilk is a gentil trade indeed
+    The gaberlunzie to carrie--o.
+  Ill bow my leg and crook my knee,
+  And draw a black clout owre my ee,
+  A criple or blind they will cau me:
+    While we sail sing and be merrie--o.
+
+
+
+
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+
+  There lived a wife at Usher's Well,
+    And a wealthy wife was she;
+  She had three stout and stalwart sons,
+    And sent them oer the sea.
+
+  They hadna been a week from her,
+    A week but barely ane,
+  Whan word came to the carline wife
+    That her three sons were gane.
+
+  They hadna been a week from her,
+    A week but barely three,
+  Whan word came to the carlin wife
+    That her sons she'd never see.
+
+  "I wish the wind may never cease,
+    Nor fashes in the flood,
+  Till my three sons come hame to me,
+    In earthly flesh and blood."
+
+  It fell about the Martinmass,
+    When nights are lang and mirk,
+  The carlin wife's three sons came hame,
+    And their hats were o the birk.
+
+  It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
+    Nor yet in ony sheugh;
+  But at the gates o Paradise,
+     That birk grew fair eneugh.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  "Blow up the fire, my maidens,
+    Bring water from the well;
+  For a' my house shall feast this night,
+    Since my three sons are well."
+
+  And she has made to them a bed,
+    She's made it large and wide,
+  And she's taen her mantle her about,
+    Sat down at the bed-side.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Up then crew the red, red cock,
+    And up and crew the gray;
+  The eldest to the youngest said,
+  'Tis time we were away.
+
+  The cock he hadna crawd but once,
+    And clappd his wings at a',
+  When the youngest to the eldest said,
+    Brother, we must awa.
+
+  "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
+    The channerin worm doth chide;
+  Gin we be mist out o our place,
+    A sair pain we maun bide.
+
+  "Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
+    Fareweel to barn and byre!
+  And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
+    That kindles my mother's fire!"
+
+
+
+
+THE LYE
+
+
+  Goe, soule, the bodies guest,
+    Upon a thanklesse arrant;
+  Feare not to touche the best,
+    The truth shall be thy warrant:
+      Goe, since I needs must dye,
+      And give the world the lye.
+
+  Goe tell the court, it glowes
+    And shines like rotten wood;
+  Goe tell the church it showes
+    What's good, and doth no good:
+      If church and court reply,
+      Then give them both the lye.
+
+  Tell potentates they live
+    Acting by others actions;
+  Not lov'd unlesse they give,
+    Not strong but by their factions;
+      If potentates reply,
+      Give potentates the lye.
+
+  Tell men of high condition,
+    That rule affairs of state,
+  Their purpose is ambition,
+    Their practise onely hate;
+      And if they once reply,
+      Then give them all the lye.
+
+  Tell them that brave it most,
+    They beg for more by spending,
+  Who in their greatest cost
+    Seek nothing but commending;
+      And if they make reply,
+      Spare not to give the lye.
+
+  Tell zeale, it lacks devotion;
+    Tell love, it is but lust;
+  Tell time, it is but motion;
+    Tell flesh, it is but dust;
+      And wish them not reply,
+      For thou must give the lye.
+
+  Tell age, it daily wasteth;
+    Tell honour, how it alters:
+  Tell beauty, how she blasteth;
+    Tell favour, how she falters;
+      And as they shall reply,
+      Give each of them the lye.
+
+  Tell wit, how much it wrangles
+    In tickle points of nicenesse;
+  Tell wisedome, she entangles
+    Herselfe in over-wisenesse;
+      And if they do reply,
+      Straight give them both the lye.
+
+  Tell physicke of her boldnesse;
+    Tell skill, it is pretension;
+  Tell charity of coldness;
+    Tell law, it is contention;
+      And as they yield reply,
+      So give them still the lye.
+
+  Tell fortune of her blindnesse;
+    Tell nature of decay;
+  Tell friendship of unkindnesse;
+    Tell justice of delay:
+      And if they dare reply,
+      Then give them all the lye.
+
+  Tell arts, they have no soundnesse,
+    But vary by esteeming;
+  Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse;
+    And stand too much on seeming:
+      If arts and schooles reply.
+      Give arts and schooles the lye.
+
+  Tell faith, it's fled the citie;
+    Tell how the countrey erreth;
+  Tell, manhood shakes off pitie;
+    Tell, vertue least preferreth:
+      And, if they doe reply,
+      Spare not to give the lye.
+
+  So, when thou hast, as I
+    Commanded thee, done blabbing,
+  Although to give the lye
+    Deserves no less than stabbing,
+      Yet stab at thee who will,
+      No stab the soule can kill.
+
+
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+
+I.
+
+
+  He did not wear his scarlet coat,
+    For blood and wine are red,
+  And blood and wine were on his hands
+    When they found him with the dead,
+  The poor dead woman whom he loved,
+    And murdered in her bed.
+
+  He walked amongst the Trial Men
+    In a suit of shabby grey;
+  A cricket cap was on his head,
+    And his step seemed light and gay;
+  But I never saw a man who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw a man who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    Which prisoners call the sky,
+  And at every drifting cloud that went
+    With sails of silver by.
+
+  I walked, with other souls in pain,
+    Within another ring,
+  And was wondering if the man had done
+    A great or little thing,
+  When a voice behind me whispered low,
+    _"That fellow's got to swing."_
+
+  Dear Christ! the very prison walls
+    Suddenly seemed to reel,
+  And the sky above my head became
+    Like a casque of scorching steel;
+  And, though I was a soul in pain,
+    My pain I could not feel.
+
+  I only knew what hunted thought
+    Quickened his step, and why
+  He looked upon the garish day
+    With such a wistful eye;
+  The man had killed the thing he loved,
+    And so he had to die.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
+    By each let this be heard,
+  Some do it with a bitter look,
+    Some with a flattering word.
+  The coward does it with a kiss,
+    The brave man with a sword!
+
+  Some kill their love when they are young,
+    And some when they are old;
+  Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
+    Some with the hands of Gold:
+  The kindest use a knife, because
+    The dead so soon grow cold.
+
+  Some love too little, some too long,
+    Some sell, and others buy;
+  Some do the deed with many tears,
+    And some without a sigh:
+  For each man kills the thing he loves,
+    Yet each man does not die.
+
+  He does not die a death of shame
+    On a day of dark disgrace,
+  Nor have a noose about his neck,
+    Nor a cloth upon his face,
+  Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
+    Into an empty space.
+
+  He does not sit with silent men
+    Who watch him night and day;
+  Who watch him when he tries to weep,
+    And when he tries to pray;
+  Who watch him lest himself should rob
+    The prison of its prey.
+
+  He does not wake at dawn to see
+    Dread figures throng his room,
+  The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
+    The Sheriff stern with gloom,
+  And the Governor all in shiny black,
+    With the yellow face of Doom.
+
+  He does not rise in piteous haste
+    To put on convict-clothes,
+  While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
+    Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
+  Fingering a watch whose little ticks
+    Are like horrible hammer-blows.
+
+  He does not feel that sickening thirst
+    That sands one's throat, before
+  The hangman with his gardener's gloves
+    Comes through the padded door,
+  And binds one with three leathern thongs,
+    That the throat may thirst no more.
+
+  He does not bend his head to hear
+    The Burial Office read,
+  Nor, while the anguish of his soul
+    Tells him he is not dead,
+  Cross his own coffin, as he moves
+    Into the hideous shed.
+
+  He does not stare upon the air
+    Through a little roof of glass:
+  He does not pray with lips of clay
+    For his agony to pass;
+  Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
+    The kiss of Caiaphas.
+
+
+II
+
+
+  Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard
+    In the suit of shabby grey:
+  His cricket cap was on his head,
+    And his step seemed light and gay,
+  But I never saw a man who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw a man who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    Which prisoners call the sky,
+  And at every wandering cloud that trailed
+    Its ravelled fleeces by.
+
+  He did not wring his hands, as do
+    Those witless men who dare
+  To try to rear the changeling
+    In the cave of black Despair:
+  He only looked upon the sun,
+    And drank the morning air.
+
+  He did not wring his hands nor weep,
+    Nor did he peek or pine,
+  But he drank the air as though it held
+    Some healthful anodyne;
+  With open mouth he drank the sun
+    As though it had been wine!
+
+  And I and all the souls in pain,
+    Who tramped the other ring,
+  Forgot if we ourselves had done
+    A great or little thing,
+  And watched with gaze of dull amaze
+    The man who had to swing.
+
+  For strange it was to see him pass
+    With a step so light and gay,
+  And strange it was to see him look
+    So wistfully at the day,
+  And strange it was to think that he
+    Had such a debt to pay.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
+    That in the spring-time shoot:
+  But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
+    With its adder-bitten root,
+  And, green or dry, a man must die
+    Before it bears its fruit!
+
+  The loftiest place is that seat of grace
+    For which all worldlings try:
+  But who would stand in hempen band
+    Upon a scaffold high,
+  And through a murderer's collar take
+    His last look at the sky?
+
+  It is sweet to dance to violins
+    When Love and Life are fair:
+  To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
+    Is delicate and rare:
+  But it is not sweet with nimble feet
+    To dance upon the air!
+
+  So with curious eyes and sick surmise
+    We watched him day by day,
+  And wondered if each one of us
+    Would end the self-same way,
+  For none can tell to what red Hell
+    His sightless soul may stray.
+
+  At last the dead man walked no more
+    Amongst the Trial Men,
+  And I knew that he was standing up
+    In the black dock's dreadful pen,
+  And that never would I see his face
+    For weal or woe again.
+
+  Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
+    We had crossed each other's way:
+  But we made no sign, we said no word,
+    We had no word to say;
+  For we did not meet in the holy night,
+    But in the shameful day.
+
+  A prison wall was round us both,
+    Two outcast men we were:
+  The world had thrust us from its heart,
+    And God from out His care:
+  And the iron gin that waits for Sin
+    Had caught us in its snare.
+
+
+III.
+
+
+  In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
+    And the dripping wall is high,
+  So it was there he took the air
+    Beneath the leaden sky,
+  And by each side a Warder walked,
+    For fear the man might die.
+
+  Or else he sat with those who watched
+    His anguish night and day;
+  Who watched him when he rose to weep,
+    And when he crouched to pray;
+  Who watched him lest himself should rob
+    Their scaffold of its prey.
+
+  The Governor was strong upon
+    The Regulations Act:
+  The Doctor said that Death was but
+    A scientific fact:
+  And twice a day the Chaplain called,
+    And left a little tract.
+
+  And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
+    And drank his quart of beer:
+  His soul was resolute, and held
+    No hiding-place for fear;
+  He often said that he was glad
+    The hangman's day was near.
+
+  But why he said so strange a thing
+    No warder dared to ask:
+  For he to whom a watcher's doom
+    Is given as his task,
+  Must set a lock upon his lips
+    And make his face a mask.
+
+  Or else he might be moved, and try
+    To comfort or console:
+  And what should Human Pity do
+    Pent up in Murderer's Hole?
+  What word of grace in such a place
+    Could help a brother's soul?
+
+  With slouch and swing around the ring
+    We trod the Fools' Parade!
+  We did not care: we knew we were
+    The Devil's Own Brigade:
+  And shaven head and feet of lead
+    Make a merry masquerade.
+
+  We tore the tarry rope to shreds
+    With blunt and bleeding nails;
+  We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
+    And cleaned the shining rails:
+  And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
+    And clattered with the pails.
+
+  We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
+    We turned the dusty drill:
+  We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
+    And sweated on the mill:
+  But in the heart of every man
+    Terror was lying still.
+
+  So still it lay that every day
+    Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:
+  And we forgot the bitter lot
+    That waits for fool and knave,
+  Till once, as we tramped in from work,
+    We passed an open grave.
+
+  With yawning mouth the yellow hole
+    Gaped for a living thing;
+  The very mud cried out for blood
+    To the thirsty asphalte ring:
+  And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
+    Some prisoner had to swing.
+
+  Right in we went, with soul intent
+    On Death and Dread and Doom:
+  The hangman, with his little bag,
+    Went shuffling through the gloom:
+  And I trembled as I groped my way
+    Into my numbered tomb.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  That night the empty corridors
+    Were full of forms of Fear,
+  And up and down the iron town
+    Stole feet we could not hear,
+  And through the bars that hide the stars
+    White faces seemed to peer.
+
+  He lay as one who lies and dreams
+    In a pleasant meadow-land,
+  The watchers watched him as he slept,
+    And could not understand
+  How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
+    With a hangman close at hand.
+
+  But there is no sleep when men must weep
+    Who never yet have wept:
+  So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave--
+    That endless vigil kept,
+  And through each brain on hands of pain
+    Another's terror crept.
+
+  Alas! it is a fearful thing
+    To feel another's guilt!
+  For, right, within, the Sword of Sin
+    Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
+  And as molten lead were the tears we shed
+    For the blood we had not spilt.
+
+  The warders with their shoes of felt
+    Crept by each padlocked door,
+  And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
+    Grey figures on the floor,
+  And wondered why men knelt to pray
+    Who never prayed before.
+
+  All through the night we knelt and prayed,
+    Mad mourners of a corse!
+  The troubled plumes of midnight shook
+    The plumes upon a hearse:
+  And bitter wine upon a sponge
+    Was the savour of Remorse.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,
+    But never came the day:
+  And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,
+    In the corners where we lay:
+  And each evil sprite that walks by night
+    Before us seemed to play.
+
+  They glided past, they glided fast,
+    Like travellers through a mist:
+  They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
+    Of delicate turn and twist,
+  And with formal pace and loathsome grace
+    The phantoms kept their tryst.
+
+  With mop and mow, we saw them go,
+    Slim shadows hand in hand:
+  About, about, in ghostly rout
+    They trod a saraband:
+  And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
+    Like the wind upon the sand!
+
+  With the pirouettes of marionettes,
+    They tripped on pointed tread:
+  But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
+    As their grisly masque they led,
+  And loud they sang, and long they sang,
+    For they sang to wake the dead.
+
+  _"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide,
+    But fettered limbs go lame!
+  And once, or twice, to throw the dice
+    Is a gentlemanly game,
+  But he does not win who plays with Sin
+    In the secret House of Shame."_
+
+  No things of air these antics were,
+    That frolicked with such glee:
+  To men whose lives were held in gyves,
+    And whose feet might not go free,
+  Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
+    Most terrible to see.
+
+  Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
+    Some wheeled in smirking pairs;
+  With the mincing step of a demirep
+    Some sidled up the stairs:
+  And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
+    Each helped us at our prayers.
+
+  The morning wind began to moan,
+    But still the night went on:
+  Through its giant loom the web of gloom
+    Crept till each thread was spun:
+  And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
+    Of the Justice of the Sun.
+
+  The moaning wind went wandering round
+    The weeping prison-wall:
+  Till like a wheel of turning steel
+    We felt the minutes crawl:
+  O moaning wind! what had we done
+    To have such a seneschal?
+
+  At last I saw the shadowed bars,
+    Like a lattice wrought in lead,
+  Move right across the whitewashed wall
+    That faced my three-plank bed,
+  And I knew that somewhere in the world
+    God's dreadful dawn was red.
+
+  At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
+    At seven all was still,
+  But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
+    The prison seemed to fill,
+  For the Lord of Death with icy breath
+    Had entered in to kill.
+
+  He did not pass in purple pomp,
+    Nor ride a moon-white steed.
+  Three yards of cord and a sliding board
+    Are all the gallows' need:
+  So with rope of shame the Herald came
+    To do the secret deed.
+
+  We were as men who through a fen
+    Of filthy darkness grope:
+  We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
+    Or to give our anguish scope:
+  Something was dead in each of us,
+    And what was dead was Hope.
+
+  For Man's grim Justice goes its way,
+    And will not swerve aside:
+  It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
+    It has a deadly stride:
+  With iron heel it slays the strong,
+    The monstrous parricide!
+
+  We waited for the stroke of eight:
+    Each tongue was thick with thirst:
+  For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
+    That makes a man accursed,
+  And Fate will use a running noose
+    For the best man and the worst.
+
+  We had no other thing to do,
+    Save to wait for the sign to come:
+  So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
+    Quiet we sat and dumb:
+  But each man's heart beat thick and quick,
+    Like a madman on a drum!
+
+  With sudden shock the prison-clock
+    Smote on the shivering air,
+  And from all the gaol rose up a wail
+    Of impotent despair,
+  Like the sound that frightened marches hear
+    From some leper in his lair.
+
+  And as one sees most fearful things
+    In the crystal of a dream,
+  We saw the greasy hempen rope
+    Hooked to the blackened beam,
+  And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
+    Strangled into a scream.
+
+  And all the woe that moved him so
+    That he gave that bitter cry,
+  And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
+    None knew so well as I:
+  For he who lives more lives than one
+    More deaths than one must die.
+
+
+IV
+
+
+  There is no chapel on the day
+    On which they hang a man:
+  The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
+    Or his face is far too wan,
+  Or there is that written in his eyes
+    Which none should look upon.
+
+  So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
+    And then they rang the bell,
+  And the warders with their jingling keys
+    Opened each listening cell,
+  And down the iron stair we tramped,
+    Each from his separate Hell.
+
+  Out into God's sweet air we went,
+    But not in wonted way,
+  For this man's face was white with fear,
+    And that man's face was grey,
+  And I never saw sad men who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw sad men who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    We prisoners called the sky,
+  And at every happy cloud that passed
+    In such strange freedom by.
+
+  But there were those amongst us all
+    Who walked with downcast head,
+  And knew that, had each got his due,
+    They should have died instead:
+  He had but killed a thing that lived,
+    Whilst they had killed the dead.
+
+  For he who sins a second time
+    Wakes a dead soul to pain,
+  And draws it from its spotted shroud,
+    And makes it bleed again,
+  And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,
+    And makes it bleed in vain!
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
+    With crooked arrows starred,
+  Silently we went round and round
+    The slippery asphalte yard;
+  Silently we went round and round,
+    And no man spoke a word.
+
+  Silently we went round and round,
+    And through each hollow mind
+  The Memory of dreadful things
+    Rushed like a dreadful wind,
+  And Horror stalked before each man,
+    And Terror crept behind.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The warders strutted up and down,
+    And watched their herd of brutes,
+  Their uniforms were spick and span,
+    And they wore their Sunday suits,
+  But we knew the work they had been at,
+    By the quicklime on their boots.
+
+  For where a grave had opened wide,
+    There was no grave at all:
+  Only a stretch of mud and sand
+    By the hideous prison-wall,
+  And a little heap of burning lime,
+    That the man should have his pall.
+
+  For he has a pall, this wretched man,
+    Such as few men can claim:
+  Deep down below a prison-yard,
+    Naked for greater shame,
+  He lies, with fetters on each foot,
+    Wrapt in a sheet of flame!
+
+  And all the while the burning lime
+    Eats flesh and bone away,
+  It eats the brittle bone by night,
+    And the soft flesh by day,
+  It eats the flesh and bone by turns,
+    But it eats the heart alway.
+
+       *       *       *       *
+
+  For three long years they will not sow
+    Or root or seedling there:
+  For three long years the unblessed spot
+    Will sterile be and bare,
+  And look upon the wondering sky
+    With unreproachful stare.
+
+  They think a murderer's heart would taint
+    Each simple seed they sow.
+  It is not true! God's kindly earth
+    Is kindlier than men know,
+  And the red rose would but blow more red,
+    The white rose whiter blow.
+
+  Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
+    Out of his heart a white!
+  For who can say by what strange way,
+    Christ brings His will to light,
+  Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
+    Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?
+
+  But neither milk-white rose nor red
+    May bloom in prison-air;
+  The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
+    Are what they give us there:
+  For flowers have been known to heal
+    A common man's despair.
+
+  So never will wine-red rose or white,
+    Petal by petal, fall
+  On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
+    By the hideous prison-wall,
+  To tell the men who tramp the yard
+    That God's Son died for all.
+
+  Yet though the hideous prison-wall
+    Still hems him round and round,
+  And a spirit may not walk by night
+    That is with fetters bound,
+  And a spirit may but weep that lies
+    In such unholy ground.
+
+  He is at peace-this wretched man--
+    At peace, or will be soon:
+  There is no thing to make him mad,
+    Nor does Terror walk at noon,
+  For the lampless Earth in which he lies
+    Has neither Sun nor Moon.
+
+  They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
+    They did not even toll
+  A requiem that might have brought
+    Rest to his startled soul,
+  But hurriedly they took him out,
+    And hid him in a hole.
+
+  The warders stripped him of his clothes,
+    And gave him to the flies:
+  They mocked the swollen purple throat,
+    And the stark and staring eyes:
+  And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
+    In which the convict lies.
+
+  The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
+    By his dishonoured grave:
+  Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
+    That Christ for sinners gave,
+  Because the man was one of those
+    Whom Christ came down to save.
+
+  Yet all is well; he has but passed
+    To Life's appointed bourne:
+  And alien tears will fill for him
+    Pity's long-broken urn,
+  For his mourners will be outcast men,
+    And outcasts always mourn.
+
+
+V
+
+
+  I know not whether Laws be right,
+    Or whether Laws be wrong;
+  All that we know who lie in gaol
+    Is that the wall is strong;
+  And that each day is like a year,
+    A year whose days are long.
+
+  But this I know, that every Law
+    That men have made for Man,
+  Since first Man took his brother's life,
+    And the sad world began,
+  But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
+    With a most evil fan.
+
+  This too I know--and wise it were
+    If each could know the same--
+  That every prison that men build
+    Is built with bricks of shame,
+  And bound with bars lest Christ should see
+    How men their brothers maim.
+
+  With bars they blur the gracious moon,
+    And blind the goodly sun:
+  And they do well to hide their Hell,
+    For in it things are done
+  That Son of God nor son of Man
+    Ever should look upon!
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The vilest deeds like poison weeds,
+    Bloom well in prison-air;
+  It is only what is good in Man
+    That wastes and withers there:
+  Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
+    And the Warder is Despair.
+
+  For they starve the little frightened child
+    Till it weeps both night and day:
+  And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
+    And gibe the old and grey,
+  And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
+    And none a word may say.
+
+  Each narrow cell in which we dwell
+    Is a foul and dark latrine,
+  And the fetid breath of living Death
+    Chokes up each grated screen,
+  And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
+    In humanity's machine.
+
+  The brackish water that we drink
+   Creeps with a loathsome slime,
+  And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
+   Is full of chalk and lime,
+  And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
+   Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
+   Like asp with adder fight,
+  We have little care of prison fare,
+   For what chills and kills outright
+  Is that every stone one lifts by day
+   Becomes one's heart by night.
+
+  With midnight always in one's heart,
+   And twilight in one's cell,
+  We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
+   Each in his separate Hell,
+  And the silence is more awful far
+   Than the sound of a brazen bell.
+
+  And never a human voice comes near
+   To speak a gentle word:
+  And the eye that watches through the door
+   Is pitiless and hard:
+  And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
+   With soul and body marred.
+
+  And thus we rust Life's iron chain
+   Degraded and alone:
+  And some men curse and some men weep,
+    And some men make no moan:
+  But God's eternal Laws are kind
+    And break the heart of stone.
+
+  And every human heart that breaks,
+    In prison-cell or yard,
+  Is as that broken box that gave
+    Its treasure to the Lord,
+  And filled the unclean leper's house
+    With the scent of costliest nard.
+
+  Ah! happy they whose hearts can break
+    And peace of pardon win!
+  How else man may make straight his plan
+    And cleanse his soul from Sin?
+  How else but through a broken heart
+    May Lord Christ enter in?
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  And he of the swollen purple throat,
+    And the stark and staring eyes,
+  Waits for the holy hands that took
+    The Thief to Paradise;
+  And a broken and a contrite heart
+    The Lord will not despise.
+
+  The man in red who reads the Law
+    Gave him three weeks of life,
+  Three little weeks in which to heal    His soul of his soul's strife,
+  And cleanse from every blot of blood
+    The hand that held the knife.
+
+  And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
+    The hand that held the steel:
+  For only blood can wipe out blood,
+    And only tears can heal:
+  And the crimson stain that was of Cain
+    Became Christ's snow-white seal.
+
+
+VI
+
+
+  In Reading gaol by Reading town
+    There is a pit of shame,
+  And in it lies a wretched man
+    Eaten by teeth of flame,
+  In a burning winding-sheet he lies,
+    And his grave has got no name.
+
+  And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
+    In silence let him lie:
+  No need to waste the foolish tear,
+    Or heave the windy sigh:
+  The man had killed the thing he loved,
+    And so he had to die.
+
+  And all men kill the thing they love,
+    By all let this be heard,
+  Some do it with a bitter look,
+    Some with a flattering word,
+  The coward does it with a kiss,
+    The brave man with a sword!
+
+
+
+
+APPENDIX
+
+_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume I._
+
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+
+Printed from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection.
+
+
+KING ESTMERE
+
+This ballad is given from two versions, one in the Percy folio
+manuscript, and of considerable antiquity. The original version was
+probably written at the end of the fifteenth century.
+
+
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+
+One of the earliest known ballads about Robin Hood--from the Percy folio
+manuscript.
+
+
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+
+This ballad is printed from Richard Johnson's _Crown Garland of
+Goulden Roses,_ 1612.
+
+
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+
+This ballad is composed of innumerable small fragments of ancient
+ballads found throughout the plays of Shakespeare, which Thomas Percy
+formed into one.
+
+
+SIR ALDINGAR
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with some additional stanzas
+added by Thomas Percy to complete the story.
+
+
+EDOM O'GORDON
+
+A Scottish ballad--this version was printed at Glasgow in 1755 by Robert
+and Andrew Foulis. It has been enlarged with several stanzas, recovered
+from a fragment of the same ballad, from the Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF CHEVY CHACE
+
+From the Percy folio manuscript, amended by two or three others printed
+in black-letter. Written about the time of Elizabeth.
+
+
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+
+Given from a printed copy, corrected in part by an extract from the
+Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+THE CHILD OF ELLE
+
+Partly from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas
+by Percy as the original copy was defective and mutilated.
+
+
+KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAM WORTH
+
+The text in this ballad is selected from two copies in black-letter. One
+in the Bodleian Library, printed at London by John Danter in 1596. The
+other copy, without date, is from the Pepys Collection.
+
+
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+
+Printed from two manuscript copies transmitted from Scotland. It is
+possible that this ballad is founded on historical fact.
+
+
+EDWARD, EDWARD
+
+An old Scottish ballad--from a manuscript copy transmitted from
+Scotland.
+
+
+KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+
+Version from an old copy in the _Golden Garland,_ black-letter,
+entitled _A lamentable Song of the Death of King Lear and his Three
+Daughters._
+
+
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+
+This ballad is said to have been written by King James V of Scotland.
+
+
+
+_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume II._
+
+
+THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+
+Printed from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections.
+
+
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+
+This ballad was abridged and modernized in the time of James I from one
+much older, entitled _King John and the Bishop of Canterbury._ The
+version given here is from an ancient black-letter copy.
+
+
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+
+Given, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy, entitled
+_Barbara Alien's Cruelty, or the Young Man's Tragedy._
+
+
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+
+The version of this ballad given here is from four ancient copies in
+black-letter: two of them in the Pepys' Library. It is by Thomas Delone.
+First printed in 1612.
+
+
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+
+This is a revised and modernized version of a very old ballad.
+
+
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas
+supplied by Thomas Percy.
+
+
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+
+This ballad is from the Percy folio manuscript with additions and
+amendments from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection.
+It was written probably at the end of the sixteenth century.
+
+
+THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with a few additions and
+alterations from two ancient printed copies.
+
+
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+
+Given from an old black-letter copy.
+
+
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+
+The version of an ancient black-letter copy, edited in part from the
+Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+GIL MORRICE
+
+The version of this ballad given here was printed at Glasgow in 1755.
+Since this date sixteen additional verses have been discovered and added
+to the original ballad.
+
+
+CHILD WATERS
+
+From the Percy folio manuscript, with corrections.
+
+
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+
+From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection.
+
+
+THE LYE
+
+By Sir Walter Raleigh. This poem is from a scarce miscellany entitled
+_Davison's Poems, or a poeticall Rapsodie divided into sixe books ...
+the 4th impression newly corrected and augmented and put into a forme
+more pleasing to the reader._ Lond. 1621.
+
+
+
+_From "English and Scottish Ballads."_
+
+
+MAY COLLIN
+
+From a manuscript at Abbotsford in the Sir Walter Scott Collection,
+_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy._
+
+
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+
+_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy,_ No. 97,
+Abbotsford. From the Sir Walter Scott Collection. Communicated to Sir
+Walter by Mrs. Christiana Greenwood, London, May 27th, 1806.
+
+
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+
+Taken from the Jamieson-Brown manuscript, 1783.
+
+
+CLERK COLVILL
+
+From a transcript of No. 13 of William Tytler's Brown manuscript.
+
+
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+
+From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland,_ 1828.
+
+
+HYND HORN
+
+From Motherwell's manuscript, 1825 and after.
+
+
+THE THREE RAVENS
+
+_Melismate. Musicall Phansies. Fitting the Court, Cittie and Country
+Humours._ London, 1611. (T. Ravenscroft.)
+
+
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+Printed from _Ministrelsy of the Scottish Border_, 1802.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+MANDALAY
+
+By Rudyard Kipling.
+
+
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+
+
+IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY
+
+By Jack Judge and Harry Williams.
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+By Oscar Wilde.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Book of Old Ballads,
+Selected by Beverly Nichols
+
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+Project Gutenberg's Book of Old Ballads, by Selected by Beverly Nichols
+#5 in our series by Selected by Beverly Nichols
+
+Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
+copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
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+*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
+
+
+Title: Book of Old Ballads
+
+Author: Selected by Beverly Nichols
+
+Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7535]
+[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
+[This file was first posted on May 15, 2003]
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: iso-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Phil McLaury,
+Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
+
+
+
+
+A BOOK OF OLD BALLADS
+
+
+Selected and with an Introduction
+
+by
+
+BEVERLEY NICHOLS
+
+
+
+
+ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
+
+The thanks and acknowledgments of the publishers are due to the
+following: to Messrs. B. Feldman & Co., 125 Shaftesbury Avenue, W.C. 2,
+for "It's a Long Way to Tipperary"; to Mr. Rudyard Kipling and Messrs.
+Methuen & Co. for "Mandalay" from _Barrack Room Ballads_; and to
+the Executors of the late Oscar Wilde for "The Ballad of Reading Gaol."
+
+"The Earl of Mar's Daughter", "The Wife of Usher's Well", "The Three
+Ravens", "Thomas the Rhymer", "Clerk Colvill", "Young Beichen", "May
+Collin", and "Hynd Horn" have been reprinted from _English and
+Scottish Ballads_, edited by Mr. G. L. Kittredge and the late Mr. F.
+J. Child, and published by the Houghton Mifflin Company.
+
+The remainder of the ballads in this book, with the exception of "John
+Brown's Body", are from _Percy's Reliques_, Volumes I and II.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+FOREWORD
+MANDALAY
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+KING ESTMERE
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+MAY COLLIN
+THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+CLERK COLVILL
+SIR ALDINGAR
+EDOM O' GORDON
+CHEVY CHACE
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+GIL MORRICE
+THE CHILD OF ELLE
+CHILD WATERS
+KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+EDWARD, EDWARD
+KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+HYND HORN
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+TIPPERARY
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+THE THREE RAVENS
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+THE LYE
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+
+_The source of these ballads will be found in the Appendix at the end
+of this book._
+
+
+
+
+LIST OF COLOUR PLATES
+
+
+HYND HORN
+KING ESTMERE
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+MAY COLLIN
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+CLERK COLVILL
+GIL MORRICE
+CHILD WATERS
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+THE THREE RAVENS
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+
+
+
+
+FOREWORD
+
+By
+
+Beverley Nichols
+
+
+These poems are the very essence of the British spirit. They are, to
+literature, what the bloom of the heather is to the Scot, and the
+smell of the sea to the Englishman. All that is beautiful in the old
+word "patriotism" ... a word which, of late, has been twisted to such
+ignoble purposes ... is latent in these gay and full-blooded measures.
+
+But it is not only for these reasons that they are so valuable to the
+modern spirit. It is rather for their tonic qualities that they should
+be prescribed in 1934. The post-war vintage of poetry is the thinnest
+and the most watery that England has ever produced. But here, in these
+ballads, are great draughts of poetry which have lost none of their
+sparkle and none of their bouquet.
+
+It is worth while asking ourselves why this should be--why these poems
+should "keep", apparently for ever, when the average modern poem turns
+sour overnight. And though all generalizations are dangerous I believe
+there is one which explains our problem, a very simple one.... namely,
+that the eyes of the old ballad-singers were turned outwards, while the
+eyes of the modern lyric-writer are turned inwards.
+
+The authors of the old ballads wrote when the world was young, and
+infinitely exciting, when nobody knew what mystery might not lie on the
+other side of the hill, when the moon was a golden lamp, lit by a
+personal God, when giants and monsters stalked, without the slightest
+doubt, in the valleys over the river. In such a world, what could a man
+do but stare about him, with bright eyes, searching the horizon, while
+his heart beat fast in the rhythm of a song?
+
+But now--the mysteries have gone. We know, all too well, what lies on
+the other side of the hill. The scientists have long ago puffed out,
+scornfully, the golden lamp of the night ... leaving us in the uttermost
+darkness. The giants and the monsters have either skulked away or have
+been tamed, and are engaged in writing their memoirs for the popular
+press. And so, in a world where everything is known (and nothing
+understood), the modern lyric-writer wearily averts his eyes, and stares
+into his own heart.
+
+That way madness lies. All madmen are ferocious egotists, and so are all
+modern lyric-writers. That is the first and most vital difference
+between these ballads and their modern counterparts. The old
+ballad-singers hardly ever used the first person singular. The modern
+lyric-writer hardly ever uses anything else.
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+
+
+
+This is really such an important point that it is worth labouring.
+
+Why is ballad-making a lost art? That it _is_ a lost art there can
+be no question. Nobody who is painfully acquainted with the rambling,
+egotistical pieces of dreary versification, passing for modern
+"ballads", will deny it.
+
+Ballad-making is a lost art for a very simple reason. Which is, that we
+are all, nowadays, too sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought to
+receive emotions directly, without self-consciousness. If we are
+wounded, we are no longer able to sing a song about a clean sword, and a
+great cause, and a black enemy, and a waving flag. No--we must needs go
+into long descriptions of our pain, and abstruse calculations about its
+effect upon our souls.
+
+It is not "we" who have changed. It is life that has changed. "We" are
+still men, with the same legs, arms and eyes as our ancestors. But life
+has so twisted things that there are no longer any clean swords nor
+great causes, nor black enemies. And the flags do not know which way to
+flutter, so contrary are the winds of the modern world. All is doubt.
+And doubt's colour is grey.
+
+Grey is no colour for a ballad. Ballads are woven from stuff of
+primitive hue ... the red blood gushing, the gold sun shining, the green
+grass growing, the white snow falling. Never will you find grey in a
+ballad. You will find the black of the night and the raven's wing,
+and the silver of a thousand stars. You will find the blue of many
+summer skies. But you will not find grey.
+
+
+III
+
+
+That is why ballad-making is a lost art. Or almost a lost art. For even
+in this odd and musty world of phantoms which we call the twentieth
+century, there are times when a man finds himself in a certain place at
+a certain hour and something happens to him which takes him out of
+himself. And a song is born, simply and sweetly, a song which other
+men can sing, for all time, and forget themselves.
+
+Such a song was once written by a master at my old school, Marlborough.
+He was a Scot. But he loved Marlborough with the sort of love which the
+old ballad-mongers must have had-the sort of love which takes a man on
+wings, far from his foolish little body.
+
+He wrote a song called "The Scotch Marlburian".
+
+Here it is:--
+
+  Oh Marlborough, she's a toun o' touns
+  We will say that and mair,
+  We that ha' walked alang her douns
+  And snuffed her Wiltshire air.
+  A weary way ye'll hae to tramp
+  Afore ye match the green
+  O' Savernake and Barbery Camp
+  And a' that lies atween!
+
+The infinite beauty of that phrase ... "and a' that lies atween"! The
+infinite beauty as it is roared by seven hundred young throats in
+unison! For in that phrase there drifts a whole pageant of boyhood--the
+sound of cheers as a race is run on a stormy day in March, the tolling
+of the Chapel bell, the crack of ball against bat, the sighs of sleep
+in a long white dormitory.
+
+But you may say "What is all this to me? I wasn't at Maryborough. I
+don't like schoolboys ... they strike me as dirty, noisy, and usually
+foul-minded. Why should I go into raptures about such a song, which
+seems only to express a highly debatable approval of a certain method of
+education?"
+
+If you are asking yourself that sort of question, you are obviously in
+very grave need of the tonic properties of this book. For after you have
+read it, you will wonder why you ever asked it.
+
+
+IV
+
+I go back and back to the same point, at the risk of boring you to
+distraction. For it is a point which has much more "to" it than the
+average modern will care to admit, unless he is forced to do so.
+
+You remember the generalization about the eyes ... how they used to look
+_out_, but now look _in_? Well, listen to this....
+
+  _I'm_ feeling blue,
+  _I_ don't know what to do,
+  'Cos _I_ love you
+  And you don't love _me_.
+
+The above masterpiece is, as far as I am aware, imaginary. But it
+represents a sort of _reductio ad absurdum_ of thousands of lyrics
+which have been echoing over the post-war world. Nearly all these lyrics
+are melancholy, with the profound and primitive melancholy of the negro
+swamp, and they are all violently egotistical.
+
+Now this, in the long run, is an influence of far greater evil than one
+would be inclined at first to admit. If countless young men, every
+night, are to clasp countless young women to their bosoms, and rotate
+over countless dancing-floors, muttering "I'm feeling blue ... _I_
+don't know what to do", it is not unreasonable to suppose that they will
+subconsciously apply some of the lyric's mournful egotism to themselves.
+
+Anybody who has even a nodding acquaintance with modern psychological
+science will be aware of the significance of "conditioning", as applied
+to the human temperament. The late M. Coué "conditioned" people into
+happiness by making them repeat, over and over again, the phrase "Every
+day in every way I grow better and better and better."
+
+The modern lyric-monger exactly reverses M. Coué's doctrine. He makes
+the patient repeat "Every night, with all my might, I grow worse and
+worse and worse." Of course the "I" of the lyric-writer is an imaginary
+"I", but if any man sings "_I'm_ feeling blue", often enough, to a
+catchy tune, he will be a superman if he does not eventually apply that
+"I" to himself.
+
+But the "blueness" is really beside the point. It is the _egotism_
+of the modern ballad which is the trouble. Even when, as they
+occasionally do, the modern lyric-writers discover, to their
+astonishment, that they are feeling happy, they make the happiness such
+a personal issue that half its tonic value is destroyed. It is not, like
+the old ballads, just an outburst of delight, a sudden rapture at the
+warmth of the sun, or the song of the birds, or the glint of moonlight
+on a sword, or the dew in a woman's eyes. It is not an emotion so sweet
+and soaring that self is left behind, like a dull chrysalis, while the
+butterfly of the spirit flutters free. No ... the chrysalis is never
+left behind, the "I", "I", "I", continues, in a maddening monotone. And
+we get this sort of thing....
+
+  _I_ want to be happy,
+  But _I_ can't be happy
+  Till _I've_ made you happy too.
+
+And that, if you please, is one of the jolliest lyrics of the last
+decade! That was a song which made us all smile and set all our feet
+dancing!
+
+Even when their tale was woven out of the stuff of tragedy, the old
+ballads were not tarnished with such morbid speculations. Read the tale
+of the beggar's daughter of Bethnal Green. One shudders to think what a
+modern lyric-writer would make of it. We should all be in tears before
+the end of the first chorus.
+
+But here, a lovely girl leaves her blind father to search for fortune.
+She has many adventures, and in the end, she marries a knight. The
+ballad ends with words of almost childish simplicity, but they are words
+which ring with the true tone of happiness:--
+
+  Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte
+  A bridegroome most happy then was the young knighte
+  In joy and felicitie long lived hee
+  All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.
+
+I said that the words were of almost childish simplicity. But the
+student of language, and the would-be writer, might do worse than study
+those words, if only to see how the cumulative effect of brightness and
+radiance is gained. You may think the words are artless, but just
+ponder, for a moment, the number of brilliant verbal symbols which are
+collected into that tiny verse. There are only four lines. But those
+lines contain these words ...
+
+Feast, joy, delight, bridegroom, happy, joy, young, felicity, fair,
+pretty.
+
+Is that quite so artless, after all? Is it not rather like an old and
+primitive plaque, where colour is piled on colour till you would say
+the very wood will burst into flame ... and yet, the total effect is one
+of happy simplicity?
+
+
+V
+
+
+How were the early ballads born? Who made them? One man or many? Were
+they written down, when they were still young, or was it only after the
+lapse of many generations, when their rhymes had been sharpened and
+their metres polished by constant repetition, that they were finally
+copied out?
+
+To answer these questions would be one of the most fascinating tasks
+which the detective in letters could set himself. Grimm, listening
+in his fairyland, heard some of the earliest ballads, loved them,
+pondered on them, and suddenly startled the world by announcing that
+most ballads were not the work of a single author, but of the people at
+large. _Das Volk dichtet_, he said. And that phrase got him into a
+lot of trouble. People told him to get back to his fairyland and not
+make such ridiculous suggestions. For how, they asked, could a whole
+people make a poem? You might as well tell a thousand men to make a
+tune, limiting each of them to one note!
+
+To invest Grimm's words with such an intention is quite unfair.
+[Footnote:  For a discussion of Grimm's theories, together with much
+interesting speculation on the origin of the ballads, the reader should
+study the admirable introduction to _English and Scottish Popular
+Ballads_, published by George Harrap & Co., Ltd.] Obviously a
+multitude of people could not, deliberately, make a single poem any more
+than a multitude of people could, deliberately, make a single picture,
+one man doing the nose, one man an eye and so on. Such a suggestion is
+grotesque, and Grimm never meant it. If I might guess at what he meant,
+I would suggest that he was thinking that the origin of ballads must
+have been similar to the origin of the dance, (which was probably the
+earliest form of aesthetic expression known to man).
+
+The dance was invented because it provided a means of prolonging ecstasy
+by art. It may have been an ecstasy of sex or an ecstasy of victory ...
+that doesn't matter. The point is that it gave to a group of people an
+ordered means of expressing their delight instead of just leaping about
+and making loud cries, like the animals. And you may be sure that as the
+primitive dance began, there was always some member of the tribe a
+little more agile than the rest--some man who kicked a little higher or
+wriggled his body in an amusing way. And the rest of them copied him,
+and incorporated his step into their own.
+
+Apply this analogy to the origin of ballads. It fits perfectly.
+
+There has been a successful raid, or a wedding, or some great deed of
+daring, or some other phenomenal thing, natural or supernatural. And now
+that this day, which will ever linger in their memories, is drawing to
+its close, the members of the tribe draw round the fire and begin to
+make merry. The wine passes ... and tongues are loosened. And someone
+says a phrase which has rhythm and a sparkle to it, and the phrase is
+caught up and goes round the fire, and is repeated from mouth to mouth.
+And then the local wit caps it with another phrase and a rhyme is born.
+For there is always a local wit in every community, however primitive.
+There is even a local wit in the monkey house at the zoo.
+
+And once you have that single rhyme and that little piece of rhythm, you
+have the genesis of the whole thing. It may not be worked out that
+night, nor even by the men who first made it. The fire may long have
+died before the ballad is completed, and tall trees may stand over the
+men and women who were the first to tell the tale. But rhyme and rhythm
+are indestructible, if they are based on reality. "Not marble nor the
+gilded monuments of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme."
+
+And so it is that some of the loveliest poems in the language will ever
+remain anonymous. Needless to say, _all_ the poems are not
+anonymous. As society became more civilized it was inevitable that the
+peculiar circumstances from which the earlier ballads sprang should
+become less frequent. Nevertheless, about nearly all of the ballads
+there is "a common touch", as though even the most self-conscious author
+had drunk deep of the well of tradition, that sparkling well in which so
+much beauty is distilled.
+
+
+VI
+
+
+But though the author or authors of most of the ballads may be lost in
+the lists of time, we know a good deal about the minstrels who sang
+them. And it is a happy thought that those minstrels were such
+considerable persons, so honourably treated, so generously esteemed.
+The modern mind, accustomed to think of the singer of popular songs
+either as a highly paid music-hall artist, at the top of the ladder, or
+a shivering street-singer, at the bottom of it, may find it difficult to
+conceive of a minstrel as a sort of ambassador of song, moving from
+court to court with dignity and ceremony.
+
+Yet this was actually the case. In the ballad of King Estmere, for
+example, we see the minstrel finely mounted, and accompanied by a
+harpist, who sings his songs for him. This minstrel, too, moves among
+kings without any ceremony. As Percy has pointed out, "The further we
+carry our enquiries back, the greater respect we find paid to the
+professors of poetry and music among all the Celtic and Gothic nations.
+Their character was deemed so sacred that under its sanction our famous
+King Alfred made no scruple to enter the Danish camp, and was at once
+admitted to the king's headquarters."
+
+_And even so late as the time of Froissart, we have minstrels and
+heralds mentioned together, as those who might securely go into an
+enemy's country._
+
+The reader will perhaps forgive me if I harp back, once more, to our
+present day and age, in view of the quite astonishing change in national
+psychology which that revelation implies. Minstrels and heralds were
+once allowed safe conduct into the enemy's country, in time of war. Yet,
+in the last war, it was considered right and proper to hiss the work of
+Beethoven off the stage, and responsible newspapers seriously suggested
+that never again should a note of German music, of however great
+antiquity, be heard in England! We are supposed to have progressed
+towards internationalism, nowadays. Whereas, in reality, we have grown
+more and more frenziedly national. We are very far behind the age of
+Froissart, when there was a true internationalism--the internationalism
+of art.
+
+To some of us that is still a very real internationalism. When we hear a
+Beethoven sonata we do not think of it as issuing from the brain of a
+"Teuton" but as blowing from the eternal heights of music whose winds
+list nothing of frontiers.
+
+Man _needs_ song, for he is a singing animal. Moreover, he needs
+communal song, for he is a social animal. The military authorities
+realized this very cleverly, and they encouraged the troops, during the
+war, to sing on every possible occasion. Crazy pacifists, like myself,
+may find it almost unbearably bitter to think that on each side of
+various frontiers young men were being trained to sing themselves to
+death, in a struggle which was hideously impersonal, a struggle of
+machinery, in which the only winners were the armament manufacturers.
+And crazy pacifists might draw a very sharp line indeed between the
+songs which celebrated real personal struggles in the tiny wars of the
+past, and the songs which were merely the prelude to thousands of
+puzzled young men suddenly finding themselves choking in chlorine gas,
+in the wars of the present.
+
+But even the craziest pacifist could not fail to be moved by some of the
+ballads of the last war. To me, "Tipperary" is still the most moving
+tune in the world. It happens to be a very good tune, from the
+musician's point of view, a tune that Handel would not have been ashamed
+to write, but that is not the point. Its emotional qualities are due to
+its associations. Perhaps that is how it has always been, with ballads.
+From the standard of pure aesthetics, one ought not to consider
+"associations" in judging a poem or a tune, but with a song like
+"Tipperary" you would be an inhuman prig if you didn't. We all have our
+"associations" with this particular tune. For me, it recalls a window in
+Hampstead, on a grey day in October 1914. I had been having the measles,
+and had not been allowed to go back to school. Then suddenly, down the
+street, that tune echoed. And they came marching, and marching, and
+marching. And they were all so happy.
+
+So happy.
+
+
+VII
+
+
+"Tipperary" is a true ballad, which is why it is included in this book.
+So is "John Brown's Body". They were not written as ballads but they
+have been promoted to that proud position by popular vote.
+
+It will now be clear, from the foregoing remarks, that there are
+thousands of poems, labelled "ballads" from the eighteenth century,
+through the romantic movement, and onwards, which are not ballads at
+all. Swinburne's ballads, which so shocked our grandparents, bore about
+as much relation to the true ballads as a vase of wax fruit to a
+hawker's barrow. They were lovely patterns of words, woven like some
+exquisite, foaming lace, but they were Swinburne, Swinburne all the
+time. They had nothing to do with the common people. The common people
+would not have understood a word of them.
+
+Ballads _must_ be popular. And that is why it will always remain
+one of the weirdest paradoxes of literature that the only man, except
+Kipling, who has written a true ballad in the last fifty years is the
+man who despised the people, who shrank from them, and jeered at them,
+from his little gilded niche in Piccadilly. I refer, of course, to Oscar
+Wilde's "Ballad of Reading Gaol." It was a true ballad, and it was the
+best thing he ever wrote. For it was written _de profundis_, when
+his hands were bloody with labour and his tortured spirit had been down
+to the level of the lowest, to the level of the pavement ... nay, lower
+... to the gutter itself. And in the gutter, with agony, he learned the
+meaning of song.
+
+Ballads begin and end with the people. You cannot escape that fact. And
+therefore, if I wished to collect the ballads of the future, the songs
+which will endure into the next century (if there _is_ any song in
+the next century), I should not rake through the contemporary poets, in
+the hope of finding gems of lasting brilliance. No. I should go to the
+music-halls. I should listen to the sort of thing they sing when the
+faded lady with the high bust steps forward and shouts, "Now then, boys,
+all together!"
+
+Unless you can write the words "Now then, boys, all together", at the
+top of a ballad, it is not really a ballad at all. That may sound a
+sweeping statement, but it is true.
+
+In the present-day music-halls, although they have fallen from their
+high estate, we should find a number of these songs which seem destined
+for immortality. One of these is "Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore."
+
+Do you remember it?
+
+  Don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!
+  Mrs. Moore, oh don't 'ave any more!
+  Too many double gins
+  Give the ladies double chins,
+  So don't 'ave any more, Mrs. Moore!
+
+The whole of English "low life" (which is much the most exciting part of
+English life) is in that lyric. It is as vivid as a Rowlandson cartoon.
+How well we know Mrs. Moore! How plainly we see her ... the amiable,
+coarse-mouthed, generous-hearted tippler, with her elbow on countless
+counters, her damp coppers clutched in her rough hands, her eyes
+staring, a little vacantly, about her. Some may think it is a sordid
+picture, but I am sure that they cannot know Mrs. Moore very well if
+they think that. They cannot know her bitter struggles, her silent
+heroisms, nor her sardonic humour.
+
+Lyrics such as these will, I believe, endure long after many of the most
+renowned and fashionable poets of to-day are forgotten. They all have
+the same quality, that they can be prefaced by that inspiring sentence,
+"Now then, boys--all together!" Or to put it another way, as in the
+ballad of George Barnwell,
+
+  All youths of fair England
+  That dwell both far and near,
+  Regard my story that I tell
+  And to my song give ear.
+
+That may sound more dignified, but it amounts to the same thing!
+
+
+VIII
+
+
+But if the generation to come will learn a great deal from the few
+popular ballads which we are still creating in our music-halls, how much
+more shall we learn of history from these ballads, which rang through
+the whole country, and were impregnated with the spirit of a whole
+people! These ballads _are_ history, and as such they should be
+recognised.
+
+It has always seemed to me that we teach history in the wrong way. We
+give boys the impression that it is an affair only of kings and queens
+and great statesmen, of generals and admirals, and such-like bores.
+Thousands of boys could probably draw you a map of many pettifogging
+little campaigns, with startling accuracy, but not one in a thousand
+could tell you what the private soldier carried in his knapsack. You
+could get sheaves of competent essays, from any school, dealing with
+such things as the Elizabethan ecclesiastical settlement, but how many
+boys could tell you, even vaguely, what an English home was like, what
+they ate, what coins were used, how their rooms were lit, and what they
+paid their servants?
+
+In other words, how many history masters ever take the trouble to sketch
+in the great background, the life of the common people? How many even
+realize their _existence_, except on occasions of national
+disaster, such as the Black Plague?
+
+A proper study of the ballads would go a long way towards remedying this
+defect. Thomas Percy, whose _Reliques_ must ever be the main source
+of our information on all questions connected with ballads, has pointed
+out that all the great events of the country have, sooner or later,
+found their way into the country's song-book. But it is not only the
+resounding names that are celebrated. In the ballads we hear the echoes
+of the street, the rude laughter and the pointed jests. Sometimes these
+ring so plainly that they need no explanation. At other times, we have
+to go to Percy or to some of his successors to realize the true
+significance of the song.
+
+For example, the famous ballad "John Anderson my Jo" seems, at first
+sight, to be innocent of any polemical intention. But it was written
+during the Reformation when, as Percy dryly observes, "the Muses were
+deeply engaged in religious controversy." The zeal of the Scottish
+reformers was at its height, and this zeal found vent in many a pasquil
+discharged at Popery. It caused them, indeed, in their frenzy, to
+compose songs which were grossly licentious, and to sing these songs in
+rasping voices to the tunes of some of the most popular hymns in the
+Latin Service.
+
+"John Anderson my Jo" was such a ballad composed for such an occasion.
+And Percy, who was more qualified than any other man to read between the
+lines, has pointed out that the first stanza contains a satirical
+allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy, while the second, which
+makes an apparently light reference to "seven bairns", is actually
+concerned with the seven sacraments, five of which were the spurious
+offspring of Mother Church.
+
+Thus it was in a thousand cases. The ballads, even the lightest and most
+blossoming of them, were deep-rooted in the soil of English history. How
+different from anything that we possess to-day! Great causes do not lead
+men to song, nowadays they lead them to write letters to the newspapers.
+A national thanksgiving cannot call forth a single rhyme or a single bar
+of music. Who can remember a solitary verse of thanksgiving, from any of
+our poets, in commemoration of any of the victories of the Great War?
+Who can recall even a fragment of verse in praise of the long-deferred
+coming of Peace?
+
+Very deeply significant is it that our only method of commemorating
+Armistice Day was by a two minutes silence. No song. No music. Nothing.
+The best thing we could do, we felt, was to keep quiet.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+MANDALAY
+
+
+  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
+  There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
+  For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
+  'Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!'
+  Come you back to Mandalay,
+  Where the old Flotilla lay:
+  Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
+  On the road to Mandalay,
+  Where the flyin'-fishes play,
+  An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
+
+  'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
+  An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
+  An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
+  An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
+      Bloomin' idol made o' mud--
+      Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--
+      Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
+  She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing _'Kulla-lo-lo!'_
+  With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek
+  We useter watch the steamers an' the _hathis_ pilin' teak.
+      Elephints a-pilin' teak
+      In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
+      Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away,
+  An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
+  An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
+  'If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught
+            else.'
+      No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
+      But them spicy garlic smells,
+      An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
+      On the road to Mandalay...
+
+  I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
+  An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
+  Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
+  An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
+      Beefy face an' grubby 'and--
+      Law! wot do they understand?
+      I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
+      On the road to Mandalay ...
+
+  Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
+  Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
+  For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be--
+  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
+         On the road to Mandalay,
+         Where the old Flotilla lay,
+         With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
+         O the road to Mandalay,
+         Where the flyin'-fishes play,
+         An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+
+or
+
+THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE
+
+
+  Now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court,
+  One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport:
+  But amongst all the rest, here is one I protest,
+  Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest:
+  A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground,
+  As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound.
+
+  The Duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben,
+  Take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then.
+  O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd
+  To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd:
+  Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose,
+  And they put him to bed for to take his repose.
+
+  Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt,
+  They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt:
+  On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,
+  They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown.
+  In the morning when day, then admiring he lay,
+  For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay.
+
+  Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state,
+  Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait;
+  And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare,
+  He desired to know what apparel he'd ware:
+  The poor tinker amaz'd on the gentleman gaz'd,
+  And admired how he to this honour was rais'd.
+
+  Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit,
+  Which he straitways put on without longer dispute;
+  With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd,
+  And it seem'd for to swell him "no" little with pride;
+  For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife?
+  Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.
+
+  From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace
+  Did observe his behaviour in every case.
+  To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait,
+  Trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great:
+  Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view,
+  With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew.
+
+  A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests,
+  He was plac'd at the table above all the rest,
+  In a rich chair "or bed," lin'd with fine crimson red,
+  With a rich golden canopy over his head:
+  As he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet,
+  With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.
+
+  While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine,
+  Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine.
+  Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl,
+  Till at last he began for to tumble and roul
+  From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,
+  Being seven times drunker than ever before.
+
+  Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain,
+  And restore him his old leather garments again:
+  'T was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must,
+  And they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first;
+  There he slept all the night, as indeed well he might;
+  But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.
+
+  For his glory "to him" so pleasant did seem,
+  That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream;
+  Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought
+  For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought;
+  But his highness he said, Thou 'rt a jolly bold blade,
+  Such a frolick before I think never was plaid.
+
+  Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak,
+  Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak;
+  Nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground,
+  Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round,
+  Crying old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good friend,
+  Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend.
+
+  Then the tinker reply'd, What! must Joan my sweet bride
+  Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride?
+  Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command?
+  Then I shall be a squire I well understand:
+  Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace,
+  I was never before in so happy a case.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+THE KNIGHT & SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+
+
+  There was a shepherd's daughter
+    Came tripping on the waye;
+  And there by chance a knighte shee mett,
+    Which caused her to staye.
+
+  Good morrowe to you, beauteous maide,
+    These words pronounced hee:
+  O I shall dye this daye, he sayd,
+    If Ive not my wille of thee.
+
+  The Lord forbid, the maide replyde,
+    That you shold waxe so wode!
+  "But for all that shee could do or saye,
+    He wold not be withstood."
+
+  Sith you have had your wille of mee,
+    And put me to open shame,
+  Now, if you are a courteous knighte,
+    Tell me what is your name?
+
+  Some do call mee Jacke, sweet heart,
+    And some do call mee Jille;
+  But when I come to the kings faire courte
+    They call me Wilfulle Wille.
+
+  He sett his foot into the stirrup,
+    And awaye then he did ride;
+  She tuckt her girdle about her middle,
+    And ranne close by his side.
+
+  But when she came to the brode water,
+    She sett her brest and swamme;
+  And when she was got out againe,
+    She tooke to her heels and ranne.
+
+  He never was the courteous knighte,
+    To saye, faire maide, will ye ride?
+  "And she was ever too loving a maide
+    To saye, sir knighte abide."
+
+  When she came to the kings faire courte,
+    She knocked at the ring;
+  So readye was the king himself
+    To let this faire maide in.
+
+  Now Christ you save, my gracious liege,
+    Now Christ you save and see,
+  You have a knighte within your courte,
+    This daye hath robbed mee.
+
+  What hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart?
+    Of purple or of pall?
+  Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring
+    From off thy finger small?
+
+  He hath not robbed mee, my liege,
+    Of purple nor of pall:
+  But he hath gotten my maiden head,
+    Which grieves mee worst of all.
+
+  Now if he be a batchelor,
+    His bodye He give to thee;
+  But if he be a married man,
+    High hanged he shall bee.
+
+  He called downe his merrye men all,
+    By one, by two, by three;
+  Sir William used to bee the first,
+    But nowe the last came hee.
+
+  He brought her downe full fortye pounde,
+    Tyed up withinne a glove:
+  Faire maide, He give the same to thee;
+    Go, seeke thee another love.
+
+  O Ile have none of your gold, she sayde,
+    Nor Ile have none of your fee;
+  But your faire bodye I must have,
+    The king hath granted mee.
+
+  Sir William ranne and fetched her then
+    Five hundred pound in golde,
+  Saying, faire maide, take this to thee,
+    Thy fault will never be tolde.
+
+  Tis not the gold that shall mee tempt,
+    These words then answered shee,
+  But your own bodye I must have,
+    The king hath granted mee.
+
+  Would I had dranke the water cleare,
+    When I did drinke the wine,
+  Rather than any shepherds brat
+    Shold bee a ladye of mine!
+
+  Would I had drank the puddle foule,
+    When I did drink the ale,
+  Rather than ever a shepherds brat
+    Shold tell me such a tale!
+
+  A shepherds brat even as I was,
+    You mote have let me bee,
+  I never had come to the kings faire courte,
+    To crave any love of thee.
+
+  He sett her on a milk-white steede,
+    And himself upon a graye;
+  He hung a bugle about his necke,
+    And soe they rode awaye.
+
+  But when they came unto the place,
+    Where marriage-rites were done,
+  She proved herself a dukes daughtèr,
+    And he but a squires sonne.
+
+  Now marrye me, or not, sir knight,
+    Your pleasure shall be free:
+  If you make me ladye of one good towne,
+    He make you lord of three.
+
+  Ah! cursed bee the gold, he sayd,
+    If thou hadst not been trewe,
+  I shold have forsaken my sweet love,
+    And have changed her for a newe.
+
+  And now their hearts being linked fast,
+    They joyned hand in hande:
+  Thus he had both purse, and person too,
+    And all at his commande.
+
+
+
+
+
+KING ESTMERE
+
+
+  Hearken to me, gentlemen,
+    Come and you shall heare;
+  Ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren
+    That ever borne y-were.
+
+  The tone of them was Adler younge,
+    The tother was kyng Estmere;
+  The were as bolde men in their deeds,
+    As any were farr and neare.
+
+  As they were drinking ale and wine
+    Within kyng Estmeres halle:
+  When will ye marry a wyfe, brothèr,
+    A wyfe to glad us all?
+
+  Then bespake him kyng Estmere,
+    And answered him hastilee:
+  I know not that ladye in any land
+    That's able to marrye with mee.
+
+  Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother,
+    Men call her bright and sheene;
+  If I were kyng here in your stead,
+    That ladye shold be my queene.
+
+  Saies, Reade me, reade me, deare brother,
+    Throughout merry Englànd,
+  Where we might find a messenger
+    Betwixt us towe to sende.
+
+  Saies, You shal ryde yourselfe, brothèr,
+    Ile beare you companye;
+  Many throughe fals messengers are deceived,
+    And I feare lest soe shold wee.
+
+  Thus the renisht them to ryde
+    Of twoe good renisht steeds,
+  And when the came to kyng Adlands halle,
+    Of redd gold shone their weeds.
+
+  And when the came to kyng Adlands hall
+    Before the goodlye gate,
+  There they found good kyng Adlànd
+    Rearing himselfe theratt.
+
+  Now Christ thee save, good kyng Adland;
+   Now Christ you save and see.
+  Sayd, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
+   Right hartilye to mee.
+
+  You have a daughter, said Adler younge,
+   Men call her bright and sheene,
+  My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe,
+   Of Englande to be queene.
+
+  Yesterday was att my deere daughter
+   Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne;
+  And then she nicked him of naye,
+   And I doubt sheele do you the same.
+
+  The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim,
+   And 'leeveth on Mahound;
+  And pitye it were that fayre ladye
+   Shold marrye a heathen hound.
+
+  But grant to me, sayes kyng Estmere,
+   For my love I you praye;
+  That I may see your daughter deere
+   Before I goe hence awaye.
+
+  Although itt is seven yeers and more
+   Since my daughter was in halle,
+  She shall come once downe for your sake
+   To glad my guestes alle.
+
+  Downe then came that mayden fayre,
+    With ladyes laced in pall,
+  And halfe a hundred of bold knightes,
+    To bring her from bowre to hall;
+  And as many gentle squiers,
+    To tend upon them all.
+
+  The talents of golde were on her head sette,
+    Hanged low downe to her knee;
+  And everye ring on her small fingèr
+    Shone of the chrystall free.
+
+  Saies, God you save, my deere madam;
+    Saies, God you save and see.
+  Said, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
+    Right welcome unto mee.
+
+  And if you love me, as you saye,
+    Soe well and hartilye,
+  All that ever you are comin about
+    Sooner sped now itt shal bee.
+
+  Then bespake her father deare:
+    My daughter, I saye naye;
+  Remember well the kyng of Spayne,
+    What he sayd yesterday.
+
+  He wold pull downe my hales and castles,
+     And reeve me of my life.
+  I cannot blame him if he doe,
+     If I reave him of his wyfe.
+
+  Your castles and your towres, father,
+     Are stronglye built aboute;
+  And therefore of the king of Spaine
+     Wee neede not stande in doubt.
+
+  Plight me your troth, nowe, kyng Estmère,
+     By heaven and your righte hand,
+  That you will marrye me to your wyfe,
+     And make me queene of your land.
+
+  Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth
+     By heaven and his righte hand,
+  That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe,
+     And make her queene of his land.
+
+  And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,
+     To goe to his owne countree,
+  To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,
+     That marryed the might bee.
+
+  They had not ridden scant a myle,
+     A myle forthe of the towne,
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
+     With kempès many one.
+
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
+     With manye a bold barone,
+  Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,
+     Tother daye to carrye her home.
+
+  Shee sent one after kyng Estmere
+     In all the spede might bee,
+  That he must either turne againe and fighte,
+     Or goe home and loose his ladye.
+
+  One whyle then the page he went,
+     Another while he ranne;
+  Tull he had oretaken king Estmere,
+      I wis, he never blanne.
+
+  Tydings, tydings, kyng Estmere!
+     What tydinges nowe, my boye?
+  O tydinges I can tell to you,
+     That will you sore annoye.
+
+  You had not ridden scant a mile,
+     A mile out of the towne,
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne
+     With kempès many a one:
+
+  But in did come the kyng of Spayne
+     With manye a bold barone,
+  Tone daye to marrye king Adlands daughter,
+     Tother daye to carry her home.
+
+  My ladye fayre she greetes you well,
+   And ever-more well by mee:
+  You must either turne againe and fighte,
+   Or goe home and loose your ladyè.
+
+  Saies, Reade me, reade me, deere brother,
+   My reade shall ryde at thee,
+  Whether it is better to turne and fighte,
+   Or goe home and loose my ladye.
+
+  Now hearken to me, sayes Adler yonge,
+   And your reade must rise at me,
+  I quicklye will devise a waye
+   To sette thy ladye free.
+
+  My mother was a westerne woman,
+   And learned in gramaryè,
+  And when I learned at the schole,
+   Something she taught itt mee.
+
+  There growes an hearbe within this field,
+   And iff it were but knowne,
+  His color, which is whyte and redd,
+   It will make blacke and browne:
+
+  His color, which is browne and blacke,
+   Itt will make redd and whyte;
+  That sworde is not in all Englande,
+   Upon his coate will byte.
+
+  And you shall be a harper, brother,
+    Out of the north countrye;
+  And He be your boy, soe faine of fighte,
+    And beare your harpe by your knee.
+
+  And you shal be the best harpèr,
+    That ever tooke harpe in hand;
+  And I wil be the best singèr,
+    That ever sung in this lande.
+
+  Itt shal be written on our forheads
+    All and in grammaryè,
+  That we towe are the boldest men,
+    That are in all Christentyè.
+
+  And thus they renisht them to ryde,
+    On tow good renish steedes;
+  And when they came to king Adlands hall,
+    Of redd gold shone their weedes.
+
+  And whan they came to kyng Adlands hall,
+    Untill the fayre hall yate,
+  There they found a proud portèr
+    Rearing himselfe thereatt.
+
+  Sayes, Christ thee save, thou proud portèr;
+    Sayes, Christ thee save and see.
+  Nowe you be welcome, sayd the portèr,
+    Of whatsoever land ye bee.
+
+  Wee beene harpers, sayd Adler younge,
+    Come out of the northe countrye;
+  Wee beene come hither untill this place,
+    This proud weddinge for to see.
+
+  Sayd, And your color were white and redd,
+    As it is blacke and browne,
+  I wold saye king Estmere and his brother,
+    Were comen untill this towne.
+
+  Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,
+    Layd itt on the porters arme:
+  And ever we will thee, proud porter,
+    Thow wilt saye us no harme.
+
+  Sore he looked on king Estmere,
+    And sore he handled the ryng,
+  Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,
+    He lett for no kind of thyng.
+
+  King Estmere he stabled his steede
+    Soe fayre att the hall bord;
+  The froth, that came from his brydle bitte,
+    Light in kyng Bremors beard.
+
+  Saies, Stable thy steed, thou proud harper,
+    Saies, Stable him in the stalle;
+  It doth not beseeme a proud harper
+    To stable 'him' in a kyngs halle.
+
+  My ladde he is no lither, he said,
+    He will doe nought that's meete;
+  And is there any man in this hall
+    Were able him to beate
+
+  Thou speakst proud words, sayes the king of Spaine,
+    Thou harper, here to mee:
+  There is a man within this halle
+    Will beate thy ladd and thee.
+
+  O let that man come downe, he said,
+    A sight of him wold I see;
+  And when hee hath beaten well my ladd,
+    Then he shall beate of mee.
+
+  Downe then came the kemperye man,
+    And looketh him in the eare;
+  For all the gold, that was under heaven,
+    He durst not neigh him neare.
+
+  And how nowe, kempe, said the Kyng of Spaine,
+    And how what aileth thee?
+  He saies, It is writt in his forhead
+    All and in gramaryè,
+  That for all the gold that is under heaven
+    I dare not neigh him nye.
+
+  Then Kyng Estmere pulld forth his harpe,
+    And plaid a pretty thinge:
+  The ladye upstart from the borde,
+    And wold have gone from the king.
+
+  Stay thy harpe, thou proud harper,
+    For Gods love I pray thee,
+  For and thou playes as thou beginns,
+    Thou'lt till my bryde from mee.
+
+  He stroake upon his harpe againe,
+    And playd a pretty thinge;
+  The ladye lough a loud laughter,
+    As shee sate by the king.
+
+  Saies, Sell me thy harpe, thou proud harper,
+    And thy stringes all,
+  For as many gold nobles 'thou shall have'
+    As heere bee ringes in the hall.
+
+  What wold ye doe with my harpe,' he sayd,'
+    If I did sell itt yee?
+  "To playe my wiffe and me a fitt,
+    When abed together wee bee."
+
+  Now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay,
+    As shee sitts by thy knee,
+  And as many gold nobles I will give,
+    As leaves been on a tree.
+
+  And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay,
+    Iff I did sell her thee?
+  More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye
+    To lye by mee then thee.
+
+  Hee played agayne both loud and shrille,
+    And Adler he did syng,
+  "O ladye, this is thy owne true love;
+    Noe harper, but a kyng.
+
+  "O ladye, this is thy owne true love,
+    As playnlye thou mayest see;
+  And He rid thee of that foule paynim,
+    Who partes thy love and thee."
+
+  The ladye looked, the ladye blushte,
+    And blushte and lookt agayne,
+  While Adler he hath drawne his brande,
+    And hath the Sowdan slayne.
+
+  Up then rose the kemperye men,
+    And loud they gan to crye:
+  Ah; traytors, yee have slayne our kyng,
+    And therefore yee shall dye.
+
+  Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,
+    And swith he drew his brand;
+  And Estmere he, and Adler yonge
+    Right stiffe in slodr can stand.
+
+  And aye their swordes soe sore can byte,
+    Throughe help of Gramaryè,
+  That soone they have slayne the kempery men,
+    Or forst them forth to flee.
+
+  Kyng Estmere took that fayre ladye,
+    And marryed her to his wiffe,
+  And brought her home to merry England
+    With her to leade his life.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+
+
+  An ancient story Ile tell you anon
+  Of a notable prince, that was called King John;
+  And he ruled England with maine and with might,
+  For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.
+
+  And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,
+  Concerning the Abbot of Canterbùrye;
+  How for his house-keeping, and high renowne,
+  They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
+
+  An hundred men, the king did heare say,
+  The abbot kept in his house every day;
+  And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,
+  In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
+
+  How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,
+  Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,
+  And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,
+  I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.
+
+  My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne,
+  I never spend nothing, but what is my owne;
+  And I trust, your grace will doe me no deere,
+  For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.
+
+  Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe,
+  And now for the same thou needest must dye;
+  For except thou canst answer me questions three,
+  Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe.
+
+  And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead,
+  With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,
+  Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
+  Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
+
+  Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,
+  How soone I may ride the whole world about.
+  And at the third question thou must not shrink,
+  But tell me here truly what I do think.
+
+  O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
+  Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:
+  But if you will give me but three weekes space,
+  Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.
+
+  Now three weeks space to thee will I give,
+  And that is the longest time thou hast to live;
+  For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
+  Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.
+
+  Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,
+  And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;
+  But never a doctor there was so wise,
+  That could with his learning an answer devise.
+
+  Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,
+  And he mett his shepheard a going to fold:
+  How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;
+  What newes do you bring us from good King John?
+
+  "Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give;
+  That I have but three days more to live:
+  For if I do not answer him questions three,
+  My head will be smitten from my bodie.
+
+  The first is to tell him there in that stead,
+  With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,
+  Among all his liege men so noble of birth,
+  To within one penny of all what he is worth.
+
+  The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
+  How soon he may ride this whole world about:
+  And at the third question I must not shrinke,
+  But tell him there truly what he does thinke."
+
+  Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,
+  That a fool he may learn a wise man witt?
+  Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,
+  And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
+
+  Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
+  I am like your lordship, as ever may bee:
+  And if you will but lend me your gowne,
+  There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.
+
+  Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have,
+  With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;
+  With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,
+  Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.
+
+  Now welcome, sire abbott, the king he did say,
+  'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day;
+  For and if thou canst answer my questions three,
+  Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
+
+  And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
+  With my crowne of gold so fair on my head,
+  Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
+  Tell me to one penny what I am worth.
+
+  "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
+  Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told;
+  And twenty nine is the worth of thee,
+  For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,
+  I did not thinke I had been worth so littel!
+  --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,
+  How soon I may ride this whole world about.
+
+  "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
+  Until the next morning he riseth againe;
+  And then your grace need not make any doubt,
+  But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
+  I did not think, it could be gone so soone!
+  --Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,
+  But tell me here truly what I do thinke.
+
+  "Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:
+  You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbùry;
+  But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
+  That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee."
+
+  The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
+  He make thee lord abbot this day in his place!
+  "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
+  For alacke I can neither write ne reade."
+
+  Four nobles a weeke, then I will give thee,
+  For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee;
+  And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,
+  Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.
+
+
+
+
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+
+
+  In Scarlet towne where I was borne,
+    There was a faire maid dwellin,
+  Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye!
+    Her name was Barbara Allen.
+
+  All in the merrye month of May,
+    When greene buds they were swellin,
+  Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,
+    For love of Barbara Allen.
+
+  He sent his man unto her then,
+    To the town where shee was dwellin;
+  You must come to my master deare,
+    Giff your name be Barbara Alien.
+
+  For death is printed on his face,
+    And ore his harte is stealin:
+  Then haste away to comfort him,
+    O lovelye Barbara Alien.
+
+  Though death be printed on his face,
+    And ore his harte is stealin,
+  Yet little better shall he bee
+    For bonny Barbara Alien.
+
+  So slowly, slowly, she came up,
+    And slowly she came nye him;
+  And all she sayd, when there she came,
+    Yong man, I think y'are dying.
+
+  He turned his face unto her strait,
+    With deadlye sorrow sighing;
+  O lovely maid, come pity mee,
+    Ime on my death-bed lying.
+
+  If on your death-bed you doe lye,
+    What needs the tale you are tellin;
+  I cannot keep you from your death;
+    Farewell, sayd Barbara Alien.
+
+  He turned his face unto the wall,
+    As deadlye pangs he fell in:
+  Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all,
+    Adieu to Barbara Allen.
+
+  As she was walking ore the fields,
+    She heard the bell a knellin;
+  And every stroke did seem to saye,
+    Unworthye Barbara Allen.
+
+  She turned her bodye round about,
+    And spied the corps a coming:
+  Laye down, lay down the corps, she sayd,
+    That I may look upon him.
+
+  With scornful eye she looked downe,
+    Her cheeke with laughter swellin;
+  Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine,
+    Unworthye Barbara Allen.
+
+  When he was dead, and laid in grave,
+    Her harte was struck with sorrowe,
+  O mother, mother, make my bed,
+    For I shall dye to-morrowe.
+
+  Hard-harted creature him to slight,
+    Who loved me so dearlye:
+  O that I had beene more kind to him
+    When he was alive and neare me!
+
+  She, on her death-bed as she laye,
+    Beg'd to be buried by him;
+  And sore repented of the daye,
+    That she did ere denye him.
+
+  Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all,
+    And shun the fault I fell in:
+  Henceforth take warning by the fall
+    Of cruel Barbara Allen.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+
+
+  When as King Henry rulde this land,
+    The second of that name,
+  Besides the queene, he dearly lovde
+    A faire and comely dame.
+
+  Most peerlesse was her beautye founde,
+    Her favour, and her face;
+  A sweeter creature in this worlde
+    Could never prince embrace.
+
+  Her crisped lockes like threads of golde
+    Appeard to each mans sight;
+  Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles,
+    Did cast a heavenlye light.
+
+  The blood within her crystal cheekes
+    Did such a colour drive,
+  As though the lillye and the rose
+    For mastership did strive.
+
+  Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde,
+    Her name was called so,
+  To whom our queene, dame Ellinor,
+    Was known a deadlye foe.
+
+  The king therefore, for her defence,
+    Against the furious queene,
+  At Woodstocke builded such a bower,
+    The like was never scene.
+
+  Most curiously that bower was built
+    Of stone and timber strong,
+  An hundred and fifty doors
+   Did to this bower belong:
+
+  And they so cunninglye contriv'd
+    With turnings round about,
+  That none but with a clue of thread,
+    Could enter in or out.
+
+  And for his love and ladyes sake,
+    That was so faire and brighte,
+  The keeping of this bower he gave
+    Unto a valiant knighte.
+
+  But fortune, that doth often frowne
+    Where she before did smile,
+  The kinges delighte and ladyes so
+    Full soon shee did beguile:
+
+  For why, the kinges ungracious sonne,
+    Whom he did high advance,
+  Against his father raised warres
+    Within the realme of France.
+
+  But yet before our comelye king
+    The English land forsooke,
+  Of Rosamond, his lady faire,
+    His farewelle thus he tooke:
+
+  "My Rosamonde, my only Rose,
+    That pleasest best mine eye:
+  The fairest flower in all the worlde
+    To feed my fantasye:
+
+  The flower of mine affected heart,
+    Whose sweetness doth excelle:
+  My royal Rose, a thousand times
+    I bid thee nowe farwelle!
+
+  For I must leave my fairest flower,
+    My sweetest Rose, a space,
+  And cross the seas to famous France,
+    Proud rebelles to abase.
+
+  But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt
+    My coming shortlye see,
+  And in my heart, when hence I am,
+    Ile beare my Rose with mee."
+
+  When Rosamond, that ladye brighte,
+    Did heare the king saye soe,
+  The sorrowe of her grieved heart
+    Her outward lookes did showe;
+
+  And from her cleare and crystall eyes
+    The teares gusht out apace,
+  Which like the silver-pearled dewe
+    Ranne downe her comely face.
+
+  Her lippes, erst like the corall redde,
+    Did waxe both wan and pale,
+  And for the sorrow she conceivde
+    Her vitall spirits faile;
+
+  And falling down all in a swoone
+    Before King Henryes face,
+  Full oft he in his princelye armes
+    Her bodye did embrace:
+
+  And twentye times, with watery eyes,
+    He kist her tender cheeke,
+  Untill he had revivde againe
+    Her senses milde and meeke.
+
+  Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?
+    The king did often say.
+  Because, quoth shee, to bloodye warres
+    My lord must part awaye.
+
+  But since your grace on forrayne coastes
+    Amonge your foes unkinde
+  Must goe to hazard life and limbe,
+    Why should I staye behinde?
+
+  Nay rather, let me, like a page,
+    Your sworde and target beare;
+  That on my breast the blowes may lighte,
+    Which would offend you there.
+
+  Or lett mee, in your royal tent,
+    Prepare your bed at nighte,
+  And with sweete baths refresh your grace,
+    Ar your returne from fighte.
+
+  So I your presence may enjoye
+    No toil I will refuse;
+  But wanting you, my life is death;
+    Nay, death Ild rather chuse!
+
+  "Content thy self, my dearest love;
+    Thy rest at home shall bee
+  In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle;
+    For travell fits not thee.
+
+  Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres;
+    Soft peace their sexe delights;
+  Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers;
+    Gay feastes, not cruell fights.'
+
+  My Rose shall safely here abide,
+    With musicke passe the daye;
+  Whilst I, amonge the piercing pikes,
+    My foes seeke far awaye.
+
+  My Rose shall shine in pearle, and golde,
+    Whilst Ime in armour dighte;
+  Gay galliards here my love shall dance,
+    Whilst I my foes goe fighte.
+
+  And you, Sir Thomas, whom I truste
+    To bee my loves defence;
+  Be careful of my gallant Rose
+    When I am parted hence."
+
+  And therewithall he fetcht a sigh,
+    As though his heart would breake:
+  And Rosamonde, for very grief,
+    Not one plaine word could speake.
+
+  And at their parting well they mighte
+    In heart be grieved sore:
+  After that daye faire Rosamonde
+    The king did see no more.
+
+  For when his grace had past the seas,
+    And into France was gone;
+  With envious heart, Queene Ellinor,
+    To Woodstocke came anone.
+
+  And forth she calls this trustye knighte,
+    In an unhappy houre;
+  Who with his clue of twined thread,
+    Came from this famous bower.
+
+  And when that they had wounded him,
+    The queene this thread did gette,
+  And went where Ladye Rosamonde
+    Was like an angell sette.
+
+  But when the queene with stedfast eye
+    Beheld her beauteous face,
+  She was amazed in her minde
+    At her exceeding grace.
+
+  Cast off from thee those robes, she said,
+    That riche and costlye bee;
+  And drinke thou up this deadlye draught,
+    Which I have brought to thee.
+
+  Then presentlye upon her knees
+    Sweet Rosamonde did fall;
+  And pardon of the queene she crav'd
+    For her offences all.
+
+  "Take pitty on my youthfull yeares,"
+    Faire Rosamonde did crye;
+  "And lett mee not with poison stronge
+    Enforced bee to dye.
+
+  I will renounce my sinfull life,
+    And in some cloyster bide;
+  Or else be banisht, if you please,
+    To range the world soe wide.
+
+  And for the fault which I have done,
+    Though I was forc'd thereto,
+  Preserve my life, and punish mee
+    As you thinke meet to doe."
+
+  And with these words, her lillie handes
+    She wrunge full often there;
+  And downe along her lovely face
+    Did trickle many a teare.
+
+  But nothing could this furious queene
+    Therewith appeased bee;
+  The cup of deadlye poyson stronge,
+    As she knelt on her knee,
+
+  Shee gave this comelye dame to drinke;
+    Who tooke it in her hand,
+  And from her bended knee arose,
+    And on her feet did stand:
+
+  And casting up her eyes to heaven,
+    She did for mercye calle;
+  And drinking up the poison stronge,
+    Her life she lost withalle.
+
+  And when that death through everye limbe
+    Had showde its greatest spite,
+  Her chiefest foes did plaine confesse
+    Shee was a glorious wight.
+
+  Her body then they did entomb,
+    When life was fled away,
+  At Godstowe, neare to Oxford towne,
+    As may be scene this day.
+
+
+
+
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+
+
+  When shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre,
+    And leaves both large and longe,
+  Itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrest
+    To heare the small birdes songe.
+
+  The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
+    Sitting upon the spraye,
+  Soe lowde, he wakened Robin Hood,
+    In the greenwood where he lay.
+
+  Now by my faye, sayd jollye Robin,
+    A sweaven I had this night;
+  I dreamt me of tow wighty yemen,
+    That fast with me can fight.
+
+  Methought they did mee beate and binde,
+    And tooke my bow mee froe;
+  If I be Robin alive in this lande,
+    He be wroken on them towe.
+
+  Sweavens are swift, Master, quoth John,
+    As the wind that blowes ore a hill;
+  For if itt be never so loude this night,
+    To-morrow itt may be still.
+
+  Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
+    And John shall goe with mee,
+  For Ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen,
+    In greenwood where the bee.
+
+  Then the cast on their gownes of grene,
+    And tooke theyr bowes each one;
+  And they away to the greene forrest
+    A shooting forth are gone;
+
+  Until they came to the merry greenwood,
+    Where they had gladdest bee,
+  There were the ware of a wight yeoman,
+    His body leaned to a tree.
+
+  A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
+    Of manye a man the bane;
+  And he was clad in his capull hyde
+    Topp and tayll and mayne.
+
+  Stand you still, master, quoth Litle John,
+    Under this tree so grene,
+  And I will go to yond wight yeoman
+    To know what he doth meane.
+
+  Ah! John, by me thou settest noe store,
+    And that I farley finde:
+  How offt send I my men beffore
+    And tarry my selfe behinde?
+
+  It is no cunning a knave to ken,
+    And a man but heare him speake;
+  And itt were not for bursting of my bowe.
+    John, I thy head wold breake.
+
+  As often wordes they breeden bale,
+    So they parted Robin and John;
+  And John is gone to Barnesdale;
+    The gates he knoweth eche one.
+
+  But when he came to Barnesdale,
+    Great heavinesse there hee hadd,
+  For he found tow of his owne fellòwes
+    Were slaine both in a slade.
+
+  And Scarlette he was flyinge a-foote
+    Fast over stocke and stone,
+  For the sheriffe with seven score men
+    Fast after him is gone.
+
+  One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John,
+    With Christ his might and mayne:
+  Ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast,
+    To stopp he shall be fayne.
+
+  Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,
+    And fetteled him to shoote:
+  The bow was made of a tender boughe,
+    And fell down to his foote.
+
+  Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
+    That ere thou grew on a tree;
+  For now this day thou art my bale,
+    My boote when thou shold bee.
+
+  His shoote it was but loosely shott,
+    Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
+  For itt mett one of the sheriffes men,
+    Good William a Trent was slaine.
+
+  It had bene better of William a Trent
+    To have bene abed with sorrowe,
+  Than to be that day in the green wood slade
+    To meet with Little Johns arrowe.
+
+  But as it is said, when men be mett
+    Fyve can doe more than three,
+  The sheriffe hath taken little John,
+    And bound him fast to a tree.
+
+  Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,
+    And hanged hye on a hill.
+  But thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth John,
+    If itt be Christ his will.
+
+  Let us leave talking of Little John,
+    And thinke of Robin Hood,
+  How he is gone to the wight yeoman,
+    Where under the leaves he stood.
+
+  Good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd Robin so fayre,
+    Good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he:
+   Methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande
+    A good archere thou sholdst bee.
+
+  I am wilfull of my waye, quo' the yeman,
+    And of my morning tyde.
+  He lead thee through the wood, sayd Robin;
+    Good fellow, He be thy guide.
+
+  I seeke an outlàwe, the straunger sayd,
+    Men call him Robin Hood;
+  Rather Ild meet with that proud outlawe,
+    Than fortye pound so good.
+
+  Now come with me, thou wighty yeman,
+    And Robin thou soone shalt see:
+  But first let us some pastime find
+    Under the greenwood tree.
+
+  First let us some masterye make
+    Among the woods so even,
+  Wee may chance to meet with Robin Hood
+    Here att some unsett steven.
+
+  They cut them downe two summer shroggs,
+    That grew both under a breere,
+  And sett them threescore rood in twaine
+    To shoot the prickes y-fere:
+
+  Lead on, good fellowe, quoth Robin Hood,
+    Lead on, I doe bidd thee.
+  Nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,
+    My leader thou shalt bee.
+
+  The first time Robin shot at the pricke,
+    He mist but an inch it froe:
+  The yeoman he was an archer good,
+    But he cold never shoote soe.
+
+  The second shoote had the wightye yeman,
+    He shote within the garlànde:
+  But Robin he shott far better than hee,
+    For he clave the good pricke wande.
+
+  A blessing upon thy heart, he sayd;
+    Good fellowe, thy shooting is goode;
+  For an thy hart be as good as thy hand,
+    Thou wert better then Robin Hoode.
+
+  Now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he,
+    Under the leaves of lyne.
+  Nay by my faith, quoth bolde Robin,
+    Till thou have told me thine.
+
+  I dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee,
+    And Robin to take Ime sworne;
+  And when I am called by my right name
+    I am Guye of good Gisborne.
+
+  My dwelling is in this wood, sayes Robin,
+    By thee I set right nought:
+  I am Robin Hood of Barnèsdale,
+    Whom thou so long hast sought.
+
+  He that hath neither beene kithe nor kin,
+    Might have scene a full fayre sight,
+  To see how together these yeomen went
+    With blades both browne and bright.
+
+  To see how these yeomen together they fought
+    Two howres of a summers day:
+  Yet neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy
+    Them fettled to flye away.
+
+  Robin was reachles on a roote,
+    And stumbled at that tyde;
+  And Guy was quick and nimble with-all,
+    And hitt him ore the left side.
+
+  Ah deere Lady, sayd Robin Hood, 'thou
+    That art both mother and may,'
+  I think it was never mans destinye
+    To dye before his day.
+
+  Robin thought on our ladye deere,
+    And soone leapt up againe,
+  And strait he came with a 'backward' stroke,
+    And he Sir Guy hath slayne.
+
+  He took Sir Guys head by the hayre,
+    And sticked itt on his bowes end:
+  Thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe,
+    Which thing must have an ende.
+
+  Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe,
+    And nicked Sir Guy in the face,
+  That he was never on woman born,
+    Cold tell whose head it was.
+
+  Saies, Lye there, lye there, now Sir Guye,
+    And with me be not wrothe,
+  If thou have had the worst stroked at my hand,
+    Thou shalt have the better clothe.
+
+  Robin did off his gowne of greene,
+    And on Sir Guy did it throwe,
+  And hee put on that capull hyde,
+    That cladd him topp to toe.
+
+  The bowe, the arrowes, and litle home,
+    Now with me I will beare;
+  For I will away to Barnesdale,
+    To see how my men doe fare.
+
+  Robin Hood sett Guyes horne to his mouth.
+    And a loud blast in it did blow.
+  That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham,
+    As he leaned under a lowe.
+
+  Hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe,
+    I heare now tydings good,
+  For yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blowe,
+    And he hath slaine Robin Hoode.
+
+  Yonder I heare Sir Guyes home blowe,
+    Itt blowes soe well in tyde,
+  And yonder comes that wightye yeoman,
+    Cladd in his capull hyde.
+
+  Come hyther, come hyther, thou good Sir Guy,
+    Aske what thou wilt of mee.
+  O I will none of thy gold, sayd Robin,
+    Nor I will none of thy fee:
+
+  But now I have slaine the master, he sayes,
+    Let me go strike the knave;
+  This is all the rewarde I aske;
+    Nor noe other will I have.
+
+  Thou art a madman, said the sheriffe,
+    Thou sholdest have had a knights fee:
+  But seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad,
+    Well granted it shale be.
+
+  When Litle John heard his master speake,
+    Well knewe he it was his steven:
+  Now shall I be looset, quoth Litle John,
+    With Christ his might in heaven.
+
+  Fast Robin hee hyed him to Litle John,
+    He thought to loose him belive;
+  The sheriffe and all his companye
+    Fast after him did drive.
+  Stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd Robin;
+    Why draw you mee soe neere?
+  Itt was never the use in our countrye,
+    Ones shrift another shold heere.
+
+  But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe,
+    And losed John hand and foote,
+  And gave him Sir Guyes bow into his hand,
+    And bade it be his boote.
+
+  Then John he took Guyes bow in his hand,
+    His boltes and arrowes eche one:
+  When the sheriffe saw Little John bend his bow,
+    He fettled him to be gone.
+
+  Towards his house in Nottingham towne
+    He fled full fast away;
+  And soe did all his companye:
+    Not one behind wold stay.
+
+  But he cold neither runne soe fast,
+    Nor away soe fast cold ryde,
+  But Litle John with an arrowe soe broad
+    He shott him into the 'back'-syde.
+
+
+
+
+THE BOY & THE MANTLE
+
+[Illustration: Boy and Mantle]
+
+  In Carleile dwelt King Arthur,
+    A prince of passing might;
+  And there maintain'd his table round,
+    Beset with many a knight.
+
+  And there he kept his Christmas
+    With mirth and princely cheare,
+  When, lo! a straunge and cunning boy
+    Before him did appeare.
+
+  A kirtle and a mantle
+    This boy had him upon,
+  With brooches, rings, and owches,
+    Full daintily bedone.
+
+  He had a sarke of silk
+    About his middle meet;
+  And thus, with seemely curtesy,
+    He did King Arthur greet.
+
+  "God speed thee, brave King Arthur,
+    Thus feasting in thy bowre;
+  And Guenever thy goodly queen,
+    That fair and peerlesse flowre.
+
+  "Ye gallant lords, and lordings,
+    I wish you all take heed,
+  Lest, what ye deem a blooming rose,
+    Should prove a cankred weed."
+
+  Then straitway from his bosome
+    A little wand he drew;
+  And with it eke a mantle
+    Of wondrous shape and hew.
+
+  "Now have you here, King Arthur,
+   Have this here of mee,
+  And give unto thy comely queen,
+   All-shapen as you see.
+
+  "No wife it shall become,
+    That once hath been to blame."
+  Then every knight in Arthur's court
+    Slye glaunced at his dame.
+
+  And first came Lady Guenever,
+    The mantle she must trye.
+  This dame, she was new-fangled,
+    And of a roving eye.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    And all was with it cladde,
+  From top to toe it shiver'd down,
+    As tho' with sheers beshradde.
+
+  One while it was too long,
+    Another while too short,
+  And wrinkled on her shoulders
+    In most unseemly sort.
+
+  Now green, now red it seemed,
+    Then all of sable hue.
+  "Beshrew me," quoth King Arthur,
+    "I think thou beest not true."
+
+  Down she threw the mantle,
+    Ne longer would not stay;
+  But, storming like a fury,
+    To her chamber flung away.
+
+  She curst the whoreson weaver,
+    That had the mantle wrought:
+  And doubly curst the froward impe,
+    Who thither had it brought.
+
+  "I had rather live in desarts
+    Beneath the green-wood tree;
+  Than here, base king, among thy groomes,
+    The sport of them and thee."
+
+  Sir Kay call'd forth his lady,
+    And bade her to come near:
+  "Yet, dame, if thou be guilty,
+    I pray thee now forbear."
+
+  This lady, pertly gigling,
+    With forward step came on,
+  And boldly to the little boy
+    With fearless face is gone.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    With purpose for to wear;
+  It shrunk up to her shoulder,
+    And left her b--- side bare.
+
+  Then every merry knight,
+    That was in Arthur's court,
+  Gib'd, and laught, and flouted,
+    To see that pleasant sport.
+
+  Downe she threw the mantle,
+    No longer bold or gay,
+  But with a face all pale and wan,
+    To her chamber slunk away.
+
+  Then forth came an old knight,
+    A pattering o'er his creed;
+  And proffer'd to the little boy
+    Five nobles to his meed;
+
+  "And all the time of Christmass
+    Plumb-porridge shall be thine,
+  If thou wilt let my lady fair
+    Within the mantle shine."
+
+  A saint his lady seemed,
+    With step demure and slow,
+  And gravely to the mantle
+    With mincing pace doth goe.
+
+  When she the same had taken,
+    That was so fine and thin,
+  It shrivell'd all about her,
+    And show'd her dainty skin.
+
+  Ah! little did HER mincing,
+    Or HIS long prayers bestead;
+  She had no more hung on her,
+    Than a tassel and a thread.
+
+  Down she threwe the mantle,
+    With terror and dismay,
+  And, with a face of scarlet,
+    To her chamber hyed away.
+
+  Sir Cradock call'd his lady,
+    And bade her to come neare:
+  "Come, win this mantle, lady,
+    And do me credit here.
+
+  "Come, win this mantle, lady,
+    For now it shall be thine,
+  If thou hast never done amiss,
+    Sith first I made thee mine."
+
+  The lady, gently blushing,
+    With modest grace came on,
+  And now to trye the wondrous charm
+    Courageously is gone.
+
+  When she had tane the mantle,
+    And put it on her backe,
+  About the hem it seemed
+    To wrinkle and to cracke.
+
+  "Lye still," shee cryed, "O mantle!
+    And shame me not for nought,
+  I'll freely own whate'er amiss,
+    Or blameful I have wrought.
+
+  "Once I kist Sir Cradocke
+    Beneathe the green-wood tree:
+  Once I kist Sir Cradocke's mouth
+    Before he married mee."
+
+  When thus she had her shriven,
+    And her worst fault had told,
+  The mantle soon became her
+    Right comely as it shold.
+
+  Most rich and fair of colour,
+    Like gold it glittering shone:
+  And much the knights in Arthur's court
+    Admir'd her every one.
+
+  Then towards King Arthur's table
+    The boy he turn'd his eye:
+  Where stood a boar's head garnished
+    With bayes and rosemarye.
+
+  When thrice he o'er the boar's head
+    His little wand had drawne,
+  Quoth he, "There's never a cuckold's knife
+    Can carve this head of brawne."
+
+  Then some their whittles rubbed
+    On whetstone, and on hone:
+  Some threwe them under the table,
+    And swore that they had none.
+
+  Sir Cradock had a little knife,
+    Of steel and iron made;
+  And in an instant thro' the skull
+    He thrust the shining blade.
+
+  He thrust the shining blade
+    Full easily and fast;
+  And every knight in Arthur's court
+    A morsel had to taste.
+
+  The boy brought forth a horne,
+    All golden was the rim:
+  Saith he, "No cuckolde ever can
+    Set mouth unto the brim.
+
+  "No cuckold can this little horne
+    Lift fairly to his head;
+  But or on this, or that side,
+    He shall the liquor shed."
+
+  Some shed it on their shoulder,
+    Some shed it on their thigh;
+  And hee that could not hit his mouth,
+    Was sure to hit his eye.
+
+  Thus he, that was a cuckold,
+    Was known of every man:
+  But Cradock lifted easily,
+    And wan the golden can.
+
+  Thus boar's head, horn and mantle,
+    Were this fair couple's meed:
+  And all such constant lovers,
+    God send them well to speed.
+
+  Then down in rage came Guenever,
+    And thus could spightful say,
+  "Sir Cradock's wife most wrongfully
+    Hath borne the prize away.
+
+  "See yonder shameless woman,
+    That makes herselfe so clean:
+  Yet from her pillow taken
+    Thrice five gallants have been.
+
+  "Priests, clarkes, and wedded men,
+    Have her lewd pillow prest:
+  Yet she the wonderous prize forsooth
+    Must beare from all the rest."
+
+  Then bespake the little boy,
+    Who had the same in hold:
+  "Chastize thy wife, King Arthur,
+    Of speech she is too bold:
+
+  "Of speech she is too bold,
+    Of carriage all too free;
+  Sir King, she hath within thy hall
+    A cuckold made of thee.
+
+  "All frolick light and wanton
+    She hath her carriage borne:
+  And given thee for a kingly crown
+    To wear a cuckold's horne."
+
+
+
+
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+
+PART THE FIRST
+
+
+  Lithe and listen, gentlemen,
+    To sing a song I will beginne:
+  It is of a lord of faire Scotland,
+    Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne.
+
+  His father was a right good lord,
+    His mother a lady of high degree;
+  But they, alas! were dead, him froe,
+    And he lov'd keeping companie.
+
+  To spend the daye with merry cheare,
+    To drinke and revell every night,
+  To card and dice from eve to morne,
+    It was, I ween, his hearts delighte.
+
+  To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare,
+    To alwaye spend and never spare,
+  I wott, an' it were the king himselfe,
+    Of gold and fee he mote be bare.
+
+  Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Linne
+    Till all his gold is gone and spent;
+  And he maun sell his landes so broad,
+    His house, and landes, and all his rent.
+
+  His father had a keen stewarde,
+    And John o' the Scales was called hee:
+  But John is become a gentel-man,
+    And John has gott both gold and fee.
+
+  Sayes, Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne,
+    Let nought disturb thy merry cheere;
+  Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad,
+    Good store of gold Ile give thee heere,
+
+  My gold is gone, my money is spent;
+    My lande nowe take it unto thee:
+  Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales,
+    And thine for aye my lande shall bee.
+
+  Then John he did him to record draw,
+    And John he cast him a gods-pennie;
+  But for every pounde that John agreed,
+    The lande, I wis, was well worth three.
+
+  He told him the gold upon the borde,
+    He was right glad his land to winne;
+  The gold is thine, the land is mine,
+    And now Ile be the lord of Linne.
+
+  Thus he hath sold his land soe broad,
+    Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne,
+  All but a poore and lonesome lodge,
+    That stood far off in a lonely glenne.
+
+  For soe he to his father hight.
+    My sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee,
+  Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad,
+    And thou wilt spend thy gold so free:
+
+  But sweare me nowe upon the roode,
+    That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend;
+  For when all the world doth frown on thee,
+    Thou there shalt find a faithful friend.
+
+  The heire of Linne is full of golde:
+    And come with me, my friends, sayd hee,
+  Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make,
+    And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee.
+
+  They ranted, drank, and merry made,
+    Till all his gold it waxed thinne;
+  And then his friendes they slunk away;
+    They left the unthrifty heire of Linne.
+
+  He had never a penny in his purse,
+    Never a penny left but three,
+  And one was brass, another was lead,
+    And another it was white money.
+
+  Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    Nowe well-aday, and woe is mee,
+  For when I was the lord of Linne,
+    I never wanted gold nor fee.
+
+  But many a trustye friend have I,
+    And why shold I feel dole or care?
+  Ile borrow of them all by turnes,
+    Soe need I not be never bare.
+
+  But one, I wis, was not at home;
+    Another had payd his gold away;
+  Another call'd him thriftless loone,
+    And bade him sharpely wend his way.
+
+  Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    Now well-aday, and woe is me;
+  For when I had my landes so broad,
+    On me they liv'd right merrilee.
+
+  To beg my bread from door to door
+    I wis, it were a brenning shame:
+  To rob and steale it were a sinne:
+    To worke my limbs I cannot frame.
+
+  Now Ile away to lonesome lodge,
+    For there my father bade me wend;
+  When all the world should frown on mee
+    I there shold find a trusty friend.
+
+
+PART THE SECOND
+
+
+  Away then hyed the heire of Linne
+    Oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne,
+  Untill he came to lonesome lodge,
+    That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne.
+
+  He looked up, he looked downe,
+    In hope some comfort for to winne:
+  But bare and lothly were the walles.
+    Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of Linne.
+
+  The little windowe dim and darke
+    Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe;
+  No shimmering sunn here ever shone;
+    No halesome breeze here ever blew.
+
+  No chair, ne table he mote spye,
+    No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed,
+  Nought save a rope with renning noose,
+    That dangling hung up o'er his head.
+
+  And over it in broad letters,
+    These words were written so plain to see:
+  "Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all,
+    And brought thyselfe to penurie?
+
+  "All this my boding mind misgave,
+    I therefore left this trusty friend:
+  Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace,
+    And all thy shame and sorrows end."
+
+  Sorely shent wi' this rebuke,
+    Sorely shent was the heire of Linne,
+  His heart, I wis, was near to brast     With guilt and sorrowe, shame
+and sinne.
+
+  Never a word spake the heire of Linne,
+    Never a word he spake but three:
+  "This is a trusty friend indeed,
+    And is right welcome unto mee."
+
+  Then round his necke the corde he drewe,
+    And sprung aloft with his bodie:
+  When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine,
+    And to the ground came tumbling hee.
+
+  Astonyed lay the heire of Linne,
+    Ne knewe if he were live or dead:
+  At length he looked, and saw a bille,
+    And in it a key of gold so redd.
+
+  He took the bill, and lookt it on,
+    Strait good comfort found he there:
+  It told him of a hole in the wall,
+    In which there stood three chests in-fere.
+
+  Two were full of the beaten golde,
+   The third was full of white money;
+  And over them in broad letters
+   These words were written so plaine to see:
+
+  "Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere;
+   Amend thy life and follies past;
+  For but thou amend thee of thy life,
+   That rope must be thy end at last."
+
+  And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne;
+   And let it bee, but if I amend:
+  For here I will make mine avow,
+   This reade shall guide me to the end.
+
+  Away then went with a merry cheare,
+   Away then went the heire of Linne;
+  I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne,
+   Till John o' the Scales house he did winne.
+
+  And when he came to John o' the Scales,
+   Upp at the speere then looked hee;
+  There sate three lords upon a rowe,
+   Were drinking of the wine so free.
+
+  And John himself sate at the bord-head,
+   Because now lord of Linne was hee.
+  I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales,
+   One forty pence for to lend mee.
+
+  Away, away, thou thriftless loone;
+    Away, away, this may not bee:
+  For Christs curse on my head, he sayd,
+    If ever I trust thee one pennìe.
+
+  Then bespake the heire of Linne,
+    To John o' the Scales wife then spake he:
+  Madame, some almes on me bestowe,
+    I pray for sweet Saint Charitìe.
+
+  Away, away, thou thriftless loone,
+    I swear thou gettest no almes of mee;
+  For if we shold hang any losel heere,
+    The first we wold begin with thee.
+
+  Then bespake a good fellòwe,
+    Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord
+  Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne;
+    Some time thou wast a well good lord;
+
+  Some time a good fellow thou hast been,
+    And sparedst not thy gold nor fee;
+  Therefore He lend thee forty pence,
+    And other forty if need bee.
+
+  And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales,
+    To let him sit in thy companie:
+  For well I wot thou hadst his land,
+    And a good bargain it was to thee.
+
+  Up then spake him John o' the Scales,
+    All wood he answer'd him againe:
+  Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd,
+    But I did lose by that bargàine.
+
+  And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne,
+    Before these lords so faire and free,
+  Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape,
+    By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.
+
+  I draw you to record, lords, he said.
+    With that he cast him a gods pennie:
+  Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne,
+    And here, good John, is thy monèy.
+
+  And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold,
+    And layd them down upon the bord:
+  All woe begone was John o' the Scales,
+    Soe shent he cold say never a word.
+
+  He told him forth the good red gold,
+    He told it forth with mickle dinne.
+  The gold is thine, the land is mine,
+    And now Ime againe the lord of Linne.
+
+  Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellòwe,
+    Forty pence thou didst lend me:
+  Now I am againe the lord of Linne,
+    And forty pounds I will give thee.
+
+  He make the keeper of my forrest,
+    Both of the wild deere and the tame;
+  For but I reward thy bounteous heart,
+    I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.
+
+  Now welladay! sayth Joan o' the Scales:
+    Now welladay! and woe is my life!
+  Yesterday I was lady of Linne,
+    Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife.
+
+  Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne;
+    Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee:
+  Christs curse light on me, if ever again
+    I bring my lands in jeopardy.
+
+
+
+
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+
+
+  I Read that once in Affrica
+    A princely wight did raine,
+  Who had to name Cophetua,
+    As poets they did faine:
+  From natures lawes he did decline,
+  For sure he was not of my mind.
+  He cared not for women-kinde,
+    But did them all disdaine.
+  But, marke, what hapened on a day,
+  As he out of his window lay,
+  He saw a beggar all in gray,
+    The which did cause his paine.
+
+  The blinded boy, that shootes so trim,
+    From heaven downe did hie;
+  He drew a dart and shot at him,
+    In place where he did lye:
+  Which soone did pierse him to the quicke.
+  And when he felt the arrow pricke,
+  Which in his tender heart did sticke,
+    He looketh as he would dye.
+  What sudden chance is this, quoth he,
+  That I to love must subject be,
+  Which never thereto would agree,
+    But still did it defie?
+
+  Then from the window he did come,
+    And laid him on his bed,
+  A thousand heapes of care did runne
+    Within his troubled head:
+  For now he meanes to crave her love,
+  And now he seekes which way to proove
+  How he his fancie might remoove,
+    And not this beggar wed.
+  But Cupid had him so in snare,
+  That this poor begger must prepare
+  A salve to cure him of his care,
+    Or els he would be dead.
+
+  And, as he musing thus did lye,
+    He thought for to devise
+  How he might have her companye,
+    That so did 'maze his eyes.
+  In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life;
+  For surely thou shalt be my wife,
+  Or else this hand with bloody knife
+    The Gods shall sure suffice.
+  Then from his bed he soon arose,
+  And to his pallace gate he goes;
+  Full little then this begger knowes
+    When she the king espies.
+
+  The Gods preserve your majesty,
+    The beggers all gan cry:
+  Vouchsafe to give your charity
+    Our childrens food to buy.
+  The king to them his pursse did cast,
+    And they to part it made great haste;
+  This silly woman was the last
+    That after them did hye.
+  The king he cal'd her back againe,
+  And unto her he gave his chaine;
+  And said, With us you shal remaine
+    Till such time as we dye:
+
+  For thou, quoth he, shalt be my wife,
+    And honoured for my queene;
+  With thee I meane to lead my life,
+    As shortly shall be seene:
+  Our wedding shall appointed be,
+  And every thing in its degree:
+  Come on, quoth he, and follow me,
+    Thou shalt go shift thee cleane.
+  What is thy name, faire maid? quoth he.
+  Penelophon, O king, quoth she;
+  With that she made a lowe courtsey;
+    A trim one as I weene.
+
+  Thus hand in hand along they walke
+    Unto the king's pallace:
+  The king with curteous comly talke
+    This beggar doth imbrace:
+  The begger blusheth scarlet red,
+  And straight againe as pale as lead,
+  But not a word at all she said,
+    She was in such amaze.
+  At last she spake with trembling voyce,
+  And said, O king, I doe rejoyce
+  That you wil take me from your choyce,
+    And my degree's so base.
+
+  And when the wedding day was come,
+    The king commanded strait
+  The noblemen both all and some
+    Upon the queene to wait.
+  And she behaved herself that day,
+  As if she had never walkt the way;
+  She had forgot her gown of gray,
+    Which she did weare of late.
+  The proverbe old is come to passe,
+  The priest, when he begins his masse,
+  Forgets that ever clerke he was;
+    He knowth not his estate.
+
+  Here you may read, Cophetua,
+    Though long time fancie-fed,
+  Compelled by the blinded boy
+    The begger for to wed:
+  He that did lovers lookes disdaine,
+  To do the same was glad and faine,
+  Or else he would himselfe have slaine,
+  In storie, as we read.
+    Disdaine no whit, O lady deere,
+    But pitty now thy servant heere,
+    Least that it hap to thee this yeare,
+      As to that king it did.
+
+  And thus they led a quiet life
+    Duringe their princely raigne;
+  And in a tombe were buried both,
+    As writers sheweth plaine.
+  The lords they tooke it grievously,
+  The ladies tooke it heavily,
+  The commons cryed pitiously,
+    Their death to them was paine,
+    Their fame did sound so passingly,
+    That it did pierce the starry sky,
+    And throughout all the world did flye
+      To every princes realme.
+
+[Illustration:  Decorative ]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+
+
+  'When Flora with her fragrant flowers
+    Bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye,
+  And Neptune with his daintye showers
+    Came to present the monthe of Maye;'
+  King Henrye rode to take the ayre,
+    Over the river of Thames past hee;
+  When eighty merchants of London came,
+    And downe they knelt upon their knee.
+
+  "O yee are welcome, rich merchants;
+    Good saylors, welcome unto mee."
+  They swore by the rood, they were saylors good,
+    But rich merchànts they cold not bee:
+  "To France nor Flanders dare we pass:
+    Nor Bourdeaux voyage dare we fare;
+  And all for a rover that lyes on the seas,
+    Who robbs us of our merchant ware."
+
+  King Henrye frowned, and turned him rounde,
+    And swore by the Lord, that was mickle of might,
+  "I thought he had not beene in the world,
+    Durst have wrought England such unright."
+  The merchants sighed, and said, alas!
+    And thus they did their answer frame,
+  He is a proud Scott, that robbs on the seas,
+    And Sir Andrewe Barton is his name.
+
+  The king lookt over his left shoulder,
+    And an angrye look then looked hee:
+  "Have I never a lorde in all my realme,
+    Will feitch yond tray tor unto me?"
+  Yea, that dare I; Lord Howard sayes;
+    Yea, that dare I with heart and hand;
+  If it please your grace to give me leave,
+    Myselfe wil be the only man.
+
+  Thou art but yong; the kyng replyed:
+    Yond Scott hath numbered manye a yeare.
+  "Trust me, my liege, lie make him quail,
+    Or before my prince I will never appeare."
+  Then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have,
+    And chuse them over my realme so free;
+  Besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes,
+    To guide the great shipp on the sea.
+
+  The first man, that Lord Howard chose,
+    Was the ablest gunner in all the realm,
+  Thoughe he was three score yeeres and ten;
+    Good Peter Simon was his name.
+  Peter, sais hee, I must to the sea,
+    To bring home a traytor live or dead:
+  Before all others I have chosen thee;
+    Of a hundred gunners to be the head.
+
+  If you, my lord, have chosen mee
+    Of a hundred gunners to be the head,
+  Then hang me up on your maine-mast tree,
+    If I misse my marke one shilling bread.
+  My lord then chose a boweman rare,
+    "Whose active hands had gained fame."
+  In Yorkshire was this gentleman borne,
+    And William Horseley was his name.
+
+  Horseley, said he, I must with speede
+    Go seeke a traytor on the sea,
+  And now of a hundred bowemen brave
+    To be the head I have chosen thee.
+  If you, quoth hee, have chosen mee
+    Of a hundred bowemen to be the head
+  On your main-mast He hanged bee,
+    If I miss twelvescore one penny bread.
+
+  With pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold,
+    This noble Howard is gone to the sea;
+  With a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare,
+    Out at Thames mouth sayled he.
+  And days he scant had sayled three,
+    Upon the 'voyage,' he tooke in hand,
+  But there he mett with a noble shipp,
+    And stoutely made itt stay and stand.
+
+  Thou must tell me, Lord Howard said,
+    Now who thou art, and what's thy name;
+  And shewe me where they dwelling is:
+    And whither bound, and whence thou came.
+  My name is Henry Hunt, quoth hee
+    With a heavye heart, and a carefull mind;
+  I and my shipp doe both belong
+    To the Newcastle, that stands upon Tyne.
+
+  Hast thou not heard, nowe, Henrye Hunt,
+    As thou hast sayled by daye and by night,
+  Of a Scottish rover on the seas;
+    Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, knight!
+  Then ever he sighed, and said alas!
+    With a grieved mind, and well away!
+  But over-well I knowe that wight,
+    I was his prisoner yesterday.
+
+  As I was sayling uppon the sea,
+    A Burdeaux voyage for to fare;
+  To his hach-borde he clasped me,
+    And robd me of all my merchant ware:
+  And mickle debts, God wot, I owe,
+    And every man will have his owne;
+  And I am nowe to London bounde,
+    Of our gracious king to beg a boone.
+
+  That shall not need, Lord Howard sais;
+    Lett me but once that robber see,
+  For every penny tane thee froe
+    It shall be doubled shillings three.
+  Nowe God forefend, the merchant said,
+    That you should seek soe far amisse!
+  God keepe you out of that traitors hands!
+    Full litle ye wott what a man hee is.
+
+  Hee is brasse within, and steele without,
+    With beames on his topcastle stronge;
+  And eighteen pieces of ordinance
+    He carries on each side along:
+  And he hath a pinnace deerlye dight,
+    St. Andrewes crosse that is his guide;
+  His pinnace beareth ninescore men,
+    And fifteen canons on each side.
+
+  Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one;
+    I sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall;
+  He wold overcome them everye one,
+    If once his beames they doe downe fall.
+  This is cold comfort, sais my lord,
+    To wellcome a stranger thus to the sea:
+  Yet He bring him and his ship to shore,
+    Or to Scottland hee shall carrye mee.
+
+
+  Then a noble gunner you must have,
+    And he must aim well with his ee,
+  And sinke his pinnace into the sea,
+    Or else hee never orecome will bee:
+  And if you chance his shipp to borde,
+    This counsel I must give withall,
+  Let no man to his topcastle goe
+    To strive to let his beams downe fall.
+
+
+  And seven pieces of ordinance,
+    I pray your honour lend to mee,
+  On each side of my shipp along,
+    And I will lead you on the sea.
+  A glasse He sett, that may be seene
+    Whether you sail by day or night;
+  And to-morrowe, I sweare, by nine of the clocke
+    You shall meet with Sir Andrewe Barton knight.
+
+
+  THE SECOND PART
+
+
+  The merchant sett my lorde a glasse
+    Soe well apparent in his sight,
+  And on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke,
+    He shewed him Sir Andrewe Barton knight.
+  His hachebord it was 'gilt' with gold,
+    Soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee:
+  Nowe by my faith, Lord Howarde sais,
+    This is a gallant sight to see.
+
+  Take in your ancyents, standards eke,
+    So close that no man may them see;
+  And put me forth a white willowe wand,
+    As merchants use to sayle the sea.
+  But they stirred neither top, nor mast;
+    Stoutly they past Sir Andrew by.
+  What English churles are yonder, he sayd,
+    That can soe little curtesye?
+
+  Now by the roode, three yeares and more
+    I have beene admirall over the sea;
+  And never an English nor Portingall
+    Without my leave can passe this way.
+  Then called he forth his stout pinnace;
+    "Fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee:
+  I sweare by the masse, yon English churles
+    Shall all hang att my maine-mast tree."
+
+  With that the pinnace itt shot off,
+    Full well Lord Howard might it ken;
+  For itt stroke down my lord's fore mast,
+    And killed fourteen of his men.
+  Come hither, Simon, sayes my lord,
+    Looke that thy word be true, thou said;
+  For at my maine-mast thou shalt hang,
+    If thou misse thy marke one shilling bread.
+
+  Simon was old, but his heart itt was bold;
+    His ordinance he laid right lowe;
+  He put in chaine full nine yardes long,
+    With other great shott lesse, and moe;
+  And he lette goe his great gunnes shott:
+    Soe well he settled itt with his ee,
+  The first sight that Sir Andrew sawe,
+    He see his pinnace sunke in the sea.
+
+  And when he saw his pinnace sunke,
+    Lord, how his heart with rage did swell!
+  "Nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon;
+    Ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell."
+  When my lord sawe Sir Andrewe loose,
+    Within his heart he was full faine:
+  "Now spread your ancyents, strike up your drummes,
+    Sound all your trumpetts out amaine."
+
+  Fight on, my men, Sir Andrewe sais,
+    Weale howsoever this geere will sway;
+  Itt is my Lord Admirall of England,
+    Is come to seeke mee on the sea.
+  Simon had a sonne, who shott right well,
+    That did Sir Andrewe mickle scare;
+  In att his decke he gave a shott,
+    Killed threescore of his men of warre.
+
+  Then Henrye Hunt with rigour hott
+    Came bravely on the other side,
+  Soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree,
+    And killed fourscore men beside.
+  Nowe, out alas! Sir Andrewe cryed,
+    What may a man now thinke, or say?
+  Yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee,
+    He was my prisoner yesterday.
+
+  Come hither to me, thou Gordon good,
+    That aye wast readye att my call:
+  I will give thee three hundred markes,
+    If thou wilt let my beames downe fall.
+  Lord Howard hee then calld in haste,
+    "Horseley see thou be true in stead;
+  For thou shalt at the maine-mast hang,
+    If thou misse twelvescore one penny bread."
+
+  Then Gordon swarved the maine-mast tree,
+    He swarved it with might and maine;
+  But Horseley with a bearing arrowe,
+    Stroke the Gordon through the braine;
+  And he fell unto the haches again,
+    And sore his deadlye wounde did bleed:
+  Then word went through Sir Andrews men,
+    How that the Gordon hee was dead.
+
+  Come hither to mee, James Hambilton,
+    Thou art my only sisters sonne,
+  If thou wilt let my beames downe fall
+    Six hundred nobles thou hast wonne.
+  With that he swarved the maine-mast tree,
+    He swarved it with nimble art;
+  But Horseley with a broad arròwe
+    Pierced the Hambilton thorough the heart:
+
+  And downe he fell upon the deck,
+    That with his blood did streame amaine:
+  Then every Scott cryed, Well-away!
+    Alas! a comelye youth is slaine.
+  All woe begone was Sir Andrew then,
+    With griefe and rage his heart did swell:
+  "Go fetch me forth my armour of proofe,
+    For I will to the topcastle mysell."
+
+  "Goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe;
+    That gilded is with gold soe cleare:
+  God be with my brother John of Barton!
+    Against the Portingalls hee it ware;
+  And when he had on this armour of proofe,
+    He was a gallant sight to see:
+  Ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight,
+    My deere brother, could cope with thee."
+
+  Come hither Horseley, sayes my lord,
+    And looke your shaft that itt goe right,
+  Shoot a good shoote in time of need,
+    And for it thou shalt be made a knight.
+  Ile shoot my best, quoth Horseley then,
+    Your honour shall see, with might and maine;
+  But if I were hanged at your maine-mast,
+    I have now left but arrowes twaine.
+
+  Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree,
+   With right good will he swarved then:
+  Upon his breast did Horseley hitt,
+    But the arrow bounded back agen.
+  Then Horseley spyed a privye place
+    With a perfect eye in a secrette part;
+  Under the spole of his right arme
+    He smote Sir Andrew to the heart.
+
+  "Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes,
+    "A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine;
+  He but lye downe and bleede a while,
+    And then He rise and fight againe.
+  Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew sayes,
+    "And never flinch before the foe;
+  And stand fast by St. Andrewes crosse
+    Until you heare my whistle blowe."
+
+  They never heard his whistle blow--
+    Which made their hearts waxe sore adread:
+  Then Horseley sayd, Aboard, my lord,
+    For well I wott Sir Andrew's dead.
+  They boarded then his noble shipp,
+    They boarded it with might and maine;
+  Eighteen score Scots alive they found,
+    The rest were either maimed or slaine.
+
+  Lord Howard tooke a sword in hand,
+    And off he smote Sir Andrewes head,
+  "I must have left England many a daye,
+    If thou wert alive as thou art dead."
+  He caused his body to be cast
+    Over the hatchboard into the sea,
+  And about his middle three hundred crownes:
+    "Wherever thou land this will bury thee."
+
+  Thus from the warres Lord Howard came,
+    And backe he sayled ore the maine,
+  With mickle joy and triumphing
+    Into Thames mouth he came againe.
+  Lord Howard then a letter wrote,
+    And sealed it with scale and ring;
+  "Such a noble prize have I brought to your grace,
+    As never did subject to a king:
+
+  "Sir Andrewes shipp I bring with mee;
+    A braver shipp was never none:
+  Nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr,
+    Before in England was but one."
+  King Henryes grace with royall cheere
+    Welcomed the noble Howard home,
+  And where, said he, is this rover stout,
+   That I myselfe may give the doome?
+
+  "The rover, he is safe, my liege,
+    Full many a fadom in the sea;
+  If he were alive as he is dead,
+    I must have left England many a day:
+  And your grace may thank four men i' the ship
+    For the victory wee have wonne,
+  These are William Horseley, Henry Hunt,
+    And Peter Simon, and his sonne."
+
+  To Henry Hunt, the king then sayd,
+    In lieu of what was from thee tane,
+  A noble a day now thou shalt have,
+    Sir Andrewes jewels and his chayne.
+  And Horseley thou shalt be a knight,
+    And lands and livings shalt have store;
+  Howard shall be erle Surrye hight,
+    As Howards erst have beene before.
+
+  Nowe, Peter Simon, thou art old,
+    I will maintaine thee and thy sonne:
+  And the men shall have five hundred markes
+    For the good service they have done.
+  Then in came the queene with ladyes fair
+    To see Sir Andrewe Barton knight:
+  They weend that hee were brought on shore,
+    And thought to have seen a gallant sight.
+
+  But when they see his deadlye face,
+    And eyes soe hollow in his head,
+  I wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes,
+    This man were alive as hee is dead:
+  Yett for the manfull part hee playd,
+    Which fought soe well with heart and hand,
+  His men shall have twelvepence a day,
+    Till they come to my brother kings high land.
+
+
+
+
+MAY COLLIN
+
+
+  May Collin ...
+    ... was her father's heir,
+  And she fell in love with a false priest,
+    And she rued it ever mair.
+
+  He followd her butt, he followd her benn,
+    He followd her through the hall,
+  Till she had neither tongue nor teeth
+    Nor lips to say him naw.
+
+  "We'll take the steed out where he is,
+    The gold where eer it be,
+  And we'll away to some unco land,
+    And married we shall be."
+
+  They had not riden a mile, a mile,
+    A mile but barely three,
+  Till they came to a rank river,
+    Was raging like the sea.
+
+  "Light off, light off now, May Collin,
+    It's here that you must die;
+  Here I have drownd seven king's daughters,
+    The eight now you must be.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your gown that's of the green;
+  For it's oer good and oer costly
+    To rot in the sea-stream.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your coat that's of the black;
+  For it's oer good and oer costly
+    To rot in the sea-wreck.
+
+  "Cast off, cast off now, May Collin,
+    Your stays that are well laced;
+  For thei'r oer good and costly
+    In the sea's ground to waste.
+
+  "Cast [off, cast off now, May Collin,]
+    Your sark that's of the holland;
+  For [it's oer good and oer costly]
+    To rot in the sea-bottom."
+
+  "Turn you about now, falsh Mess John,
+    To the green leaf of the tree;
+  It does not fit a mansworn man
+    A naked woman to see."
+
+  He turnd him quickly round about,
+    To the green leaf of the tree;
+  She took him hastly in her arms
+    And flung him in the sea.
+
+  "Now lye you there, you falsh Mess John,
+    My mallasin go with thee!
+  You thought to drown me naked and bare,
+    But take your cloaths with thee,
+  And if there be seven king's daughters there
+    Bear you them company"
+
+  She lap on her milk steed
+    And fast she bent the way,
+  And she was at her father's yate
+    Three long hours or day.
+
+  Up and speaks the wylie parrot,
+    So wylily and slee:
+  "Where is the man now, May Collin,
+    That gaed away wie thee?"
+
+  "Hold your tongue, my wylie parrot,
+    And tell no tales of me,
+  And where I gave a pickle befor
+    It's now I'll give you three."
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE BLIND BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+
+
+PART THE FIRST
+
+
+  Itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight,
+  He had a faire daughter of bewty most bright;
+  And many a gallant brave suiter had shee,
+  For none was soe comelye as pretty Bessee.
+
+  And though shee was of favour most faire,
+  Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre,
+  Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee,
+  Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee.
+
+  Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say,
+  Good father, and mother, let me goe away
+  To seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee.
+  This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee.
+
+  Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright,
+  All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night
+  From father and mother alone parted shee;
+  Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee.
+
+  Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow;
+  Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe:
+  With teares shee lamented her hard destinie,
+  So sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Shee kept on her journey untill it was day,
+  And went unto Rumford along the hye way;
+  Where at the Queenes armes entertained was shee;
+  Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Shee had not beene there a month to an end,
+  But master and mistress and all was her friend:
+  And every brave gallant, that once did her see,
+  Was straight-way enamoured of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold,
+  And in their songs daylye her love was extold;
+  Her beawtye was blazed in every degree;
+  Soe faire and soe comelye was pretty Bessee.
+
+  The young men of Rumford in her had their joy;
+  Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye;
+  And at her commandment still wold they bee;
+  Soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty Bessee.
+
+  Foure suitors att once unto her did goe;
+  They craved her favor, but still she sayd noe;
+  I wold not wish gentles to marry with mee.
+  Yett ever they honored prettye Bessee.
+
+  The first of them was a gallant young knight,
+  And he came unto her disguisde in the night;
+  The second a gentleman of good degree,
+  Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee.
+
+  A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small,
+  He was the third suiter, and proper withall:
+  Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee,
+  Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee.
+
+  And, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight,
+  Ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight;
+  My hart's so inthralled by thy bewtle,
+  That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee.
+
+  The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with mee,
+  As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee:
+  My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee;
+  And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee.
+
+  Let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say,
+  Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay;
+  My shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee,
+  And I will for ever love pretty Bessee.
+
+  Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus she did say,
+  My father and mother I meane to obey;
+  First gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee,
+  And you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee.
+
+  To every one this answer shee made,
+  Wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd,
+  This thing to fulfill wee all doe agree;  But where dwells thy father,
+my prettye Besse?
+
+  My father, shee said, is soone to be seene:
+  The seely blind beggar of Bednall-greene,
+  That daylye sits begging for charitie,
+  He is the good father of pretty Bessee.
+
+  His markes and his tokens are knowen very well;
+  He alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell:
+  A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee,
+  Yett hee is the father of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee:
+  Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee:
+  I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree,
+  And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee!
+
+  Why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse,
+  I waighe not true love by the waight of my pursse,
+  And bewtye is bewtye in every degree;
+  Then welcome unto me, my prettye Bessee.
+
+  With thee to thy father forthwith I will goe.
+  Nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe;
+  A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee,
+  Then take thy adew of pretty Bessee.
+
+  But soone after this, by breake of the day,
+  The knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away.
+  The younge men of Rumford, as thicke might bee,
+  Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee.
+
+  As swifte as the winde to ryde they were scene,
+  Untill they came neare unto Bednall-greene;
+  And as the knight lighted most courteouslìe,
+  They all fought against him for pretty Bessee.
+
+  But rescew came speedilye over the plaine,
+  Or else the young knight for his love had been slaine.
+  This fray being ended, then straitway he see
+  His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee.
+
+  Then spake the blind beggar, Although I bee poore,
+  Yett rayle not against my child at my own doore:
+  Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle,
+  Yett will I dropp angells with you for my girle.
+
+  And then, if my gold may better her birthe,
+  And equall the gold that you lay on the earth,
+  Then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see
+  The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee.
+
+  But first you shall promise, and have it well knowne,
+  The gold that you drop shall all be your owne.
+  With that they replyed, Contented bee wee.
+  Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that an angell he cast on the ground,
+  And dropped in angels full three thousand pound;
+  And oftentime itt was proved most plaine,
+  For the gentlemens one the beggar droppt twayne:
+
+  Soe that the place, wherin they did sitt,
+  With gold it was covered every whitt.
+  The gentlemen then having dropt all their store,
+  Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more.
+
+  Thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright.
+  Then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight;
+  And heere, added hee, I will now throwe you downe
+  A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne.
+
+  The gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene,
+  Admired the beggar of Bednall-greene:
+  And all those, that were her suitors before,
+  Their fleshe for very anger they tore.
+
+  Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight,
+  And then made a ladye in others despite:
+  A fairer ladye there never was seene,
+  Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednall-greene.
+
+  But of their sumptuous marriage and feast,
+  What brave lords and knights thither were prest,
+  The SECOND FITT shall set forth to your sight
+  With marveilous pleasure, and wished delight.
+
+
+PART THE SECOND
+
+
+  Off a blind beggars daughter most bright,
+  That late was betrothed unto a younge knight;
+  All the discourse therof you did see;
+  But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee.
+
+  Within a gorgeous palace most brave,
+  Adorned with all the cost they cold have,
+  This wedding was kept most sumptuouslìe,
+  And all for the credit of pretty Bessee.
+
+  All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete
+  Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete;
+  Partridge, and plover, and venison most free,
+  Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee.
+
+  This marriage through England was spread by report,
+  Soe that a great number therto did resort
+  Of nobles and gentles in every degree;
+  And all for the fame of prettye Bessee.
+
+  To church then went this gallant younge knight;
+  His bride followed after, an angell most bright,
+  With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was scene
+  As went with sweete Bessy of Bednall-greene.
+
+  This marryage being solempnized then,
+  With musicke performed by the skilfullest men,
+  The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde,
+  Each one admiring the beautiful bryde.
+
+  Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done,
+  To talke, and to reason a number begunn:
+  They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright,
+  And what with his daughter he gave to the knight.
+
+  Then spake the nobles, "Much marveil have wee,
+  This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see."
+  My lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base,
+  He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace.
+
+  "The prayse of a woman in question to bringe
+  Before her own face, were a flattering thinge;
+  But wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they,
+  "Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye."
+
+  They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke,
+  But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke;
+  A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee,
+  And now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee.
+
+  He had a daintye lute under his arme,
+  He touched the strings, which made such a charme,
+  Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee,
+  Ile sing you a song of pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that his lute he twanged straightway,
+  And thereon begann most sweetlye to play;
+  And after that lessons were playd two or three,
+  He strayn'd out this song most delicatelìe.
+
+  "A poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene,
+  Who for her fairenesse might well be a queene:
+  A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee,
+  And many one called her pretty Bessee.
+
+  "Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land,
+  But begged for a penny all day with his hand;
+  And yett to her marriage he gave thousands three,
+  And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee.
+
+  "And if any one here her birth doe disdaine,
+  Her father is ready, with might and with maine,
+  To proove shee is come of noble degree:
+  Therfore never flout att prettye Bessee."
+
+  With that the lords and the companye round
+  With harty laughter were readye to swound;
+  Att last said the lords, Full well wee may see,
+  The bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee.
+
+  On this the bride all blushing did rise,
+  The pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes,
+  O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee,
+  That throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee.
+
+  If this be thy father, the nobles did say,
+  Well may he be proud of this happy day;
+  Yett by his countenance well may wee see,
+  His birth and his fortune did never agree:
+
+  And therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray,
+  (and looke that the truth thou to us doe say)
+  Thy birth and thy parentage, whatt itt may bee;
+  For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee.
+
+  "Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one,
+  One song more to sing, and then I have done;
+  And if that itt may not winn good report,
+  Then doe not give me a GROAT for my sport.
+
+  "Sir Simon de Montfort my subject shal bee;
+  Once chiefe of all the great barons was hee,
+  Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase,
+  Now loste and forgotten are hee and his race.
+
+  "When the barons in armes did King Henrye oppose,
+  Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose;
+  A leader of courage undaunted was hee,
+  And oft-times he made their enemyes flee.
+
+  "At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine
+  The barons were routed, and Montford was slaine;
+  Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee,
+  Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee!
+
+  "Along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde,
+  His eldest son Henrye, who fought by his side,
+  Was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight!
+  A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight.
+
+  "Among the dead bodyes all lifeless he laye,
+  Till evening drewe on of the following daye,
+  When by a yong ladye discovered was hee;
+  And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee!
+
+  "A barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte
+  To search for her father, who fell in the fight,
+  And seeing young Montfort, where gasping he laye,
+  Was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye.
+
+  "In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine,
+  While he throughe the realme was beleeved to be slaine
+  At lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee,
+  And made him glad father of prettye Bessee.
+
+  "And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye,
+  We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye;
+  Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee:
+  All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee.
+
+  "And here have we lived in fortunes despite,
+  Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte:
+  Full forty winters thus have I beene
+  A silly blind beggar of Bednall-greene.
+
+  "And here, noble lordes, is ended the song
+  Of one, that once to your own ranke did belong:
+  And thus have you learned a secrette from mee,
+  That ne'er had been knowne, but for prettye Bessee."
+
+  Now when the faire companye everye one,
+  Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne,
+  They all were amazed, as well they might bee,
+  Both at the blinde beggar, and pretty Bessee.
+
+  With that the faire bride they all did embrace,
+  Saying, Sure thou art come of an honourable race,
+  Thy father likewise is of noble degree,
+  And thou art well worthy a lady to bee.
+
+  Thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte,
+  A bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte,
+  In joy and felicitie long lived hee,
+  All with his faire ladye, the pretty Bessee.
+
+
+[Illustration: Hand dropping gold coins]
+
+
+
+
+
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+
+
+  Thomas lay on the Huntlie bank,
+    A spying ferlies wi his eee,
+  And he did spy a lady gay,
+    Come riding down by the lang lee.
+
+  Her steed was o the dapple grey,
+    And at its mane there hung bells nine;
+  He thought he heard that lady say,
+    "They gowden bells sall a' be thine."
+
+  Her mantle was o velvet green,
+    And a' set round wi jewels fine;
+  Her hawk and hounds were at her side,
+    And her bugle-horn wi gowd did shine.
+
+  Thomas took aff baith cloak and cap,
+    For to salute this gay lady:
+  "O save ye, save ye, fair Queen o Heavn,
+    And ay weel met ye save and see!"
+
+  "I'm no the Queen o Heavn, Thomas;
+    I never carried my head sae hee;
+  For I am but a lady gay,
+    Come out to hunt in my follee.
+
+  "Now gin ye kiss my mouth, Thomas,
+    Ye mauna miss my fair bodee;
+  Then ye may een gang hame and tell
+    That ye've lain wi a gay ladee."
+
+  "O gin I loe a lady fair,
+    Nae ill tales o her wad I tell,
+  And it's wi thee I fain wad gae,
+    Tho it were een to heavn or hell."
+
+  "Then harp and carp, Thomas," she said,
+    "Then harp and carp alang wi me;
+  But it will be seven years and a day
+    Till ye win back to yere ain countrie."
+
+  The lady rade, True Thomas ran,
+    Until they cam to a water wan;
+  O it was night, and nae delight,
+    And Thomas wade aboon the knee.
+
+  It was dark night, and nae starn-light,
+    And on they waded lang days three,
+  And they heard the roaring o a flood,
+    And Thomas a waefou man was he.
+
+  Then they rade on, and farther on,
+    Untill they came to a garden green;
+  To pu an apple he put up his hand,
+    For the lack o food he was like to tyne.
+
+  "O haud yere hand, Thomas," she cried,
+    "And let that green flourishing be;
+  For it's the very fruit o hell,
+    Beguiles baith man and woman o yere countrie.
+
+  "But look afore ye, True Thomas,
+    And I shall show ye ferlies three;
+  Yon is the gate leads to our land,
+    Where thou and I sae soon shall be.
+
+  "And dinna ye see yon road, Thomas,
+    That lies out-owr yon lilly lee?
+  Weel is the man yon gate may gang,
+    For it leads him straight to the heavens hie.
+
+  "But do you see yon road, Thomas,
+    That lies out-owr yon frosty fell?
+  Ill is the man yon gate may gang,
+    For it leads him straight to the pit o hell.
+
+  "Now when ye come to our court, Thomas,
+    See that a weel-learned man ye be;
+  For they will ask ye, one and all,
+    But ye maun answer nane but me.
+
+  "And when nae answer they obtain,
+    Then will they come and question me,
+  And I will answer them again
+    That I gat yere aith at the Eildon tree.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  "Ilka seven years, Thomas,
+    We pay our teindings unto hell,
+  And ye're sae leesome and sae strang
+    That I fear, Thomas, it will be yeresell."
+
+
+
+
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+
+
+  In London city was Bicham born,
+    He longd strange countries for to see,
+  But he was taen by a savage Moor,
+    Who handld him right cruely.
+
+  For thro his shoulder he put a bore,
+    An thro the bore has pitten a tree,
+  An he's gard him draw the carts o wine,
+    Where horse and oxen had wont to be.
+
+  He's casten [him] in a dungeon deep,
+    Where he coud neither hear nor see;
+  He's shut him up in a prison strong,
+    An he's handld him right cruely.
+
+  O this Moor he had but ae daughter,
+    I wot her name was Shusy Pye;
+  She's doen her to the prison-house,
+    And she's calld Young Bicham one word
+
+  "O hae ye ony lands or rents,
+    Or citys in your ain country,
+  Coud free you out of prison strong,
+    An coud mantain a lady free?"
+
+  "O London city is my own,
+    An other citys twa or three,
+  Coud loose me out o prison strong,
+    An coud mantain a lady free."
+
+  O she has bribed her father's men
+    Wi meikle goud and white money,
+  She's gotten the key o the prison doors,
+    An she has set Young Bicham free.
+
+  She's g'in him a loaf o good white bread,
+    But an a flask o Spanish wine,
+  An she bad him mind on the ladie's love
+    That sae kindly freed him out o pine.
+
+  "Go set your foot on good ship-board,
+    An haste you back to your ain country,
+  An before that seven years has an end,
+    Come back again, love, and marry me."
+
+  It was long or seven years had an end
+    She longd fu sair her love to see;
+  She's set her foot on good ship-board,
+    And turnd her back on her ain country.
+
+  She's saild up, so has she doun,
+    Till she came to the other side;
+  She's landed at Young Bicham's gates,
+    An I hop this day she sal be his bride.
+
+  "Is this Young Bicham's gates?" says she,
+    "Or is that noble prince within?"
+  "He's up the stairs wi his bonny bride,
+    An monny a lord and lady wi him."
+
+  "O has he taen a bonny bride,
+    An has he clean forgotten me!"
+  An sighing said that gay lady,
+    I wish I were in my ain country!
+
+  But she's pitten her han in her pocket,
+    An gin the porter guineas three;
+  Says, Take ye that, ye proud porter,
+    An bid the bridegroom speak to me.
+
+  O whan the porter came up the stair,
+    He's fa'n low down upon his knee:
+  "Won up, won up, ye proud porter,
+    An what makes a' this courtesy?"
+
+  "O I've been porter at your gates
+    This mair nor seven years an three,
+  But there is a lady at them now
+    The like of whom I never did see.
+
+  "For on every finger she has a ring,
+    An on the mid-finger she has three,
+  An there's a meikle goud aboon her brow
+    As woud buy an earldome o lan to me."
+
+  Then up it started Young Bicham,
+    An sware so loud by Our Lady,
+  "It can be nane but Shusy Pye,
+    That has come oer the sea to me."
+
+  O quickly ran he down the stair,
+    O fifteen steps he has made but three;
+  He's tane his bonny love in his arms,
+    An a wot he kissd her tenderly.
+
+  "O hae you tane a bonny bride?
+    An hae you quite forsaken me?
+  An hae ye quite forgotten her
+    That gae you life an liberty? "
+  She's lookit oer her left shoulder
+    To hide the tears stood in her ee;
+  "Now fare thee well, Young Bicham," she says,
+    "I'll strive to think nae mair on thee."
+
+  "Take back your daughter, madam," he says,
+    "An a double dowry I'll gi her wi;
+  For I maun marry my first true love,
+    That's done and suffered so much for me."
+
+  He's take his bonny love by the ban,
+    And led her to yon fountain stane;
+  He's changd her name frae Shusy Pye,
+    An he's cald her his bonny love, Lady Jane.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+
+
+  The fifteenth day of July,
+    With glistering spear and shield,
+  A famous fight in Flanders
+    Was foughten in the field:
+  The most couragious officers
+    Were English captains three;
+  But the bravest man in battel
+    Was brave Lord Willoughbèy.
+
+  The next was Captain Norris,
+    A valiant man was hee:
+  The other Captain Turner,
+    From field would never flee.
+  With fifteen hundred fighting men,
+    Alas! there were no more,
+  They fought with fourteen thousand then,
+    Upon the bloody shore.
+
+  Stand to it, noble pikemen,
+    And look you round about:
+  And shoot you right, you bow-men,
+    And we will keep them out:
+  You musquet and callìver men,
+    Do you prove true to me,
+  I'le be the formost man in fight,
+    Says brave Lord Willoughbèy.
+
+  And then the bloody enemy
+    They fiercely did assail,
+  And fought it out most furiously,
+    Not doubting to prevail:
+  The wounded men on both sides fell
+    Most pitious for to see,
+  Yet nothing could the courage quell
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbèy.
+
+  For seven hours to all mens view
+    This fight endured sore,
+  Until our men so feeble grew
+    That they could fight no more;
+  And then upon dead horses
+    Full savourly they eat,
+  And drank the puddle water,
+    They could no better get.
+
+  When they had fed so freely,
+    They kneeled on the ground,
+  And praised God devoutly
+    For the favour they had found;
+  And beating up their colours,
+    The fight they did renew,
+  And turning tow'rds the Spaniard,
+    A thousand more they slew.
+
+  The sharp steel-pointed arrows,
+    And bullets thick did fly,
+  Then did our valiant soldiers
+    Charge on most furiously;
+  Which made the Spaniards waver,
+    They thought it best to flee,
+  They fear'd the stout behaviour
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  Then quoth the Spanish general,
+    Come let us march away,
+  I fear we shall be spoiled all
+    If here we longer stay;
+  For yonder comes Lord Willoughbey
+    With courage fierce and fell,
+  He will not give one inch of way
+    For all the devils in hell.
+
+  And then the fearful enemy
+    Was quickly put to flight,
+  Our men persued couragiously,
+    And caught their forces quite;
+  But at last they gave a shout,
+    Which ecchoed through the sky,
+  God, and St. George for England!
+    The conquerors did cry.
+
+  This news was brought to England
+    With all the speed might be,
+  And soon our gracious queen was told
+    Of this same victory.
+  O this is brave Lord Willoughbey,
+    My love that ever won,
+  Of all the lords of honour
+    'Tis he great deeds hath done.
+
+  To the souldiers that were maimed,
+    And wounded in the fray,
+  The queen allowed a pension
+    Of fifteen pence a day;
+  And from all costs and charges
+    She quit and set them free:
+  And this she did all for the sake
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+  Then courage, noble Englishmen,
+    And never be dismaid;
+  If that we be but one to ten,
+    We will not be afraid
+  To fight with foraign enemies,
+    And set our nation free.
+  And thus I end the bloody bout
+    Of brave Lord Willoughbey.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+
+
+  Will you hear a Spanish lady,
+    How shed wooed an English man?
+  Garments gay and rich as may be
+    Decked with jewels she had on.
+  Of a comely countenance and grace was she,
+  And by birth and parentage of high degree.
+
+  As his prisoner there he kept her,
+    In his hands her life did lye!
+  Cupid's bands did tye them faster
+    By the liking of an eye.
+  In his courteous company was all her joy,
+  To favour him in any thing she was not coy.
+
+  But at last there came commandment
+    For to set the ladies free,
+  With their jewels still adorned,
+    None to do them injury.
+  Then said this lady mild, Full woe is me;
+  O let me still sustain this kind captivity!
+
+  Gallant captain, shew some pity
+    To a ladye in distresse;
+  Leave me not within this city,
+    For to dye in heavinesse:
+  Thou hast this present day my body free,
+  But my heart in prison still remains with thee.
+
+  "How should'st thou, fair lady, love me,
+    Whom thou knowest thy country's foe?
+  Thy fair wordes make me suspect thee:
+    Serpents lie where flowers grow."
+  All the harme I wishe to thee, most courteous knight,
+  God grant the same upon my head may fully light.
+  Blessed be the time and season,
+    That you came on Spanish ground;
+  If our foes you may be termed,
+    Gentle foes we have you found:
+  With our city, you have won our hearts eche one,
+  Then to your country bear away, that is your owne.
+
+  "Rest you still, most gallant lady;
+    Rest you still, and weep no more;
+  Of fair lovers there is plenty,
+    Spain doth yield a wonderous store."
+  Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find,
+  But Englishmen through all the world are counted kind.
+
+  Leave me not unto a Spaniard,
+    You alone enjoy my heart:
+  I am lovely, young, and tender,
+    Love is likewise my desert:
+  Still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest;
+  The wife of every Englishman is counted blest.
+  "It wold be a shame, fair lady,
+    For to bear a woman hence;
+  English soldiers never carry
+    Any such without offence."
+  I'll quickly change myself, if it be so,
+  And like a page He follow thee, where'er thou go.
+
+  "I have neither gold nor silver
+    To maintain thee in this case,
+  And to travel is great charges,
+    As you know in every place."
+  My chains and jewels every one shal be thy own,
+  And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.
+
+  "On the seas are many dangers,
+    Many storms do there arise,
+  Which wil be to ladies dreadful,
+    And force tears from watery eyes."
+  Well in troth I shall endure extremity,
+  For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.
+
+  "Courteous ladye, leave this fancy,
+    Here comes all that breeds the strife;
+  I in England have already
+    A sweet woman to my wife:
+  I will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain,
+  Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain."
+
+  O how happy is that woman
+    That enjoys so true a friend!
+  Many happy days God send her;
+    Of my suit I make an end:
+  On my knees I pardon crave for my offence,
+  Which did from love and true affection first commence.
+
+  Commend me to thy lovely lady,
+    Bear to her this chain of gold;
+  And these bracelets for a token;
+    Grieving that I was so bold:
+  All my jewels in like sort take thou with thee,
+  For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.
+
+  I will spend my days in prayer,
+    Love and all her laws defye;
+  In a nunnery will I shroud mee
+    Far from any companye:
+  But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this,
+  To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.
+
+  Thus farewell, most gallant captain!
+    Farewell too my heart's content!
+  Count not Spanish ladies wanton,
+    Though to thee my love was bent:
+  Joy and true prosperity goe still with thee!
+   "The like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladie."
+
+
+
+
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  It was a friar of orders gray
+   Walkt forth to tell his beades;
+  And he met with a lady faire,
+    Clad in a pilgrime's weedes.
+
+  Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,
+    I pray thee tell to me,
+  If ever at yon holy shrine
+    My true love thou didst see.
+
+  And how should I know your true love
+    From many another one?
+  O by his cockle hat, and staff,
+    And by his sandal shoone.
+
+  But chiefly by his face and mien,
+    That were so fair to view;
+  His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,
+    And eyne of lovely blue.
+
+  O lady, he is dead and gone!
+    Lady, he's dead and gone!
+  And at his head a green grass turfe,
+    And at his heels a stone.
+
+  Within these holy cloysters long
+    He languisht, and he dyed,
+  Lamenting of a ladyes love,
+    And 'playning of her pride.
+
+  Here bore him barefac'd on his bier
+    Six proper youths and tall,
+  And many a tear bedew'd his grave
+    Within yon kirk-yard wall.
+
+  And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!
+    And art thou dead and gone!
+  And didst thou die for love of me!
+    Break, cruel heart of stone!
+
+  O weep not, lady, weep not soe;
+    Some ghostly comfort seek:
+  Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
+    Ne teares bedew thy cheek.
+
+  O do not, do not, holy friar,
+    My sorrow now reprove;
+  For I have lost the sweetest youth,
+    That e'er wan ladyes love.
+
+  And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse,
+    I'll evermore weep and sigh;
+  For thee I only wisht to live,
+    For thee I wish to dye.
+
+  Weep no more, lady, weep no more,
+    Thy sorrowe is in vaine:
+  For violets pluckt the sweetest showers
+    Will ne'er make grow againe.
+
+  Our joys as winged dreams doe flye,
+    Why then should sorrow last?
+  Since grief but aggravates thy losse,
+    Grieve not for what is past.
+
+  O say not soe, thou holy friar;
+    I pray thee, say not soe:
+  For since my true-love dyed for mee,
+    'Tis meet my tears should flow.
+
+  And will he ne'er come again?
+    Will he ne'er come again?
+  Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,
+    For ever to remain.
+
+  His cheek was redder than the rose;
+    The comliest youth was he!
+  But he is dead and laid in his grave:
+    Alas, and woe is me!
+
+  Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,
+    Men were deceivers ever:
+  One foot on sea and one on land,
+    To one thing constant never.
+
+  Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,
+    And left thee sad and heavy;
+  For young men ever were fickle found,
+    Since summer trees were leafy.
+
+  Now say not so, thou holy friar,
+    I pray thee say not soe;
+  My love he had the truest heart:
+    O he was ever true!
+
+  And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth,
+    And didst thou dye for mee?
+  Then farewell home; for ever-more
+    A pilgrim I will bee.
+
+  But first upon my true-loves grave
+    My weary limbs I'll lay,
+  And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,
+    That wraps his breathless clay.
+
+  Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile
+    Beneath this cloyster wall:
+  See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,
+    And drizzly rain doth fall.
+
+  O stay me not, thou holy friar;
+    O stay me not, I pray;
+  No drizzly rain that falls on me,
+    Can wash my fault away.
+
+  Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
+    And dry those pearly tears;
+  For see beneath this gown of gray
+    Thy own true-love appears.
+
+  Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love,
+    These holy weeds I sought;
+  And here amid these lonely walls
+    To end my days I thought.
+
+  But haply for my year of grace
+    Is not yet past away,
+  Might I still hope to win thy love,
+    No longer would I stay.
+
+  Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
+    Once more unto my heart;
+  For since I have found thee, lovely youth,
+    We never more will part.
+
+
+
+
+CLERK COLVILL
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Clerk Colvill and his lusty dame
+    Were walking in the garden green;
+  The belt around her stately waist
+    Cost Clerk Colvill of pounds fifteen.
+
+  "O promise me now, Clerk Colvill,
+    Or it will cost ye muckle strife,
+  Ride never by the wells of Slane,
+    If ye wad live and brook your life."
+
+  "Now speak nae mair, my lusty dame,
+    Now speak nae mair of that to me;
+  Did I neer see a fair woman,
+    But I wad sin with her body?"
+
+  He's taen leave o his gay lady,
+    Nought minding what his lady said,
+  And he's rode by the wells of Slane,
+    Where washing was a bonny maid.
+
+  "Wash on, wash on, my bonny maid,
+    That wash sae clean your sark of silk;"
+  "And weel fa you, fair gentleman,
+    Your body whiter than the milk."
+
+      *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Then loud, loud cry'd the Clerk Colvill,
+    "O my head it pains me sair;"
+  "Then take, then take," the maiden said,
+    "And frae my sark you'll cut a gare."
+
+  Then she's gied him a little bane-knife,
+    And frae her sark he cut a share;
+  She's ty'd it round his whey-white face,
+    But ay his head it aked mair.
+
+  Then louder cry'd the Clerk Colville,
+    "O sairer, sairer akes my head;"
+  "And sairer, sairer ever will,"
+    The maiden crys, "till you be dead."
+
+  Out then he drew his shining blade,
+    Thinking to stick her where she stood,
+  But she was vanished to a fish,
+    And swam far off, a fair mermaid.
+
+  "O mother, mother, braid my hair;
+    My lusty lady, make my bed;
+  O brother, take my sword and spear,
+    For I have seen the false mermaid."
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+SIR ALDINGAR
+
+
+  Our king he kept a false stewàrde,
+    Sir Aldingar they him call;
+  A falser steward than he was one,
+    Servde not in bower nor hall.
+
+  He wolde have layne by our comelye queene,
+    Her deere worshippe to betraye:
+  Our queene she was a good womàn,
+    And evermore said him naye.
+
+  Sir Aldingar was wrothe in his mind,
+    With her hee was never content,
+  Till traiterous meanes he colde devyse,
+    In a fyer to have her brent.
+
+  There came a lazar to the kings gate,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame:
+  He tooke the lazar upon his backe,
+    Him on the queenes bed has layne.
+
+  "Lye still, lazar, whereas thou lyest,
+    Looke thou goe not hence away;
+  He make thee a whole man and a sound
+    In two howers of the day."
+
+  Then went him forth Sir Aldingar,
+    And hyed him to our king:
+  "If I might have grace, as I have space,
+    Sad tydings I could bring."
+
+  Say on, say on, Sir Aldingar,
+    Saye on the soothe to mee.
+  "Our queene hath chosen a new new love,
+    And shee will have none of thee.
+
+  "If shee had chosen a right good knight,
+    The lesse had beene her shame;
+  But she hath chose her a lazar man,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame."
+
+  If this be true, thou Aldingar,
+    The tyding thou tellest to me,
+  Then will I make thee a rich rich knight,
+    Rich both of golde and fee.
+
+  But if it be false, Sir Aldingar,
+    As God nowe grant it bee!
+  Thy body, I sweare by the holye rood,
+    Shall hang on the gallows tree.
+
+  He brought our king to the queenes chambèr,
+    And opend to him the dore.
+  A lodlye love, King Harry says,
+    For our queene dame Elinore!
+
+  If thou were a man, as thou art none,
+    Here on my sword thoust dye;
+  But a payre of new gallowes shall be built,
+    And there shalt thou hang on hye.
+
+  Forth then hyed our king, I wysse,
+    And an angry man was hee;
+  And soone he found Queen Elinore,
+    That bride so bright of blee.
+
+  Now God you save, our queene, madame,
+    And Christ you save and see;
+  Heere you have chosen a newe newe love,
+    And you will have none of mee.
+
+  If you had chosen a right good knight,
+    The lesse had been your shame;
+  But you have chose you a lazar man,
+    A lazar both blinde and lame.
+
+  Therfore a fyer there shalt be built,
+    And brent all shalt thou bee.--
+  Now out alacke! said our comly queene,
+    Sir Aldingar's false to mee.
+
+  Now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene,
+    My heart with griefe will brast.
+  I had thought swevens had never been true;
+    I have proved them true at last.
+
+  I dreamt in my sweven on Thursday eve,
+    In my bed whereas I laye.
+  I dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast
+    Had carryed my crowne awaye;
+
+  My gorgett and my kirtle of golde,
+    And all my faire head-geere:
+  And he wold worrye me with his tush
+    And to his nest y-beare:
+
+  Saving there came a little 'gray' hawke,
+    A merlin him they call,
+  Which untill the grounde did strike the grype,
+    That dead he downe did fall.
+
+  Giffe I were a man, as now I am none,
+    A battell wold I prove,
+  To fight with that traitor Aldingar,
+    Att him I cast my glove.
+
+  But seeing Ime able noe battell to make,
+    My liege, grant me a knight
+  To fight with that traitor Sir Aldingar,
+    To maintaine me in my right.
+
+  "Now forty dayes I will give thee
+    To seeke thee a knight therein:
+  If thou find not a knight in forty dayes
+    Thy bodye it must brenn."
+
+  Then shee sent east, and shee sent west,
+    By north and south bedeene:
+  But never a champion colde she find,
+    Wolde fight with that knight soe keene.
+
+  Now twenty dayes were spent and gone,
+    Noe helpe there might be had;
+  Many a teare shed our comelye queene
+    And aye her hart was sad.
+
+  Then came one of the queenes damsèlles,
+    And knelt upon her knee,
+  "Cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame,
+    I trust yet helpe may be:
+
+  And here I will make mine avowe,
+    And with the same me binde;
+  That never will I return to thee,
+    Till I some helpe may finde."
+
+  Then forth she rode on a faire palfràye
+    Oer hill and dale about:
+  But never a champion colde she finde,
+    Wolde fighte with that knight so stout.
+
+  And nowe the daye drewe on a pace,
+    When our good queene must dye;
+  All woe-begone was that faire damsèlle,
+    When she found no helpe was nye.
+
+  All woe-begone was that faire damsèlle,
+    And the salt teares fell from her eye:
+  When lo! as she rode by a rivers side,
+    She met with a tinye boye.
+
+  A tinye boye she mette, God wot,
+    All clad in mantle of golde;
+  He seemed noe more in mans likenèsse,
+    Then a childe of four yeere old.
+
+  Why grieve you, damselle faire, he sayd,
+    And what doth cause you moane?
+  The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke,
+    But fast she pricked on.
+
+  Yet turne againe, thou faire damsèlle
+    And greete thy queene from mee:
+  When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest,
+    Nowe helpe enoughe may bee.
+
+  Bid her remember what she dreamt
+    In her bedd, wheras shee laye;
+  How when the grype and grimly beast
+    Wolde have carried her crowne awaye,
+
+  Even then there came the little gray hawke,
+    And saved her from his clawes:
+  Then bidd the queene be merry at hart,
+    For heaven will fende her cause.
+
+  Back then rode that faire damsèlle,
+    And her hart it lept for glee:
+  And when she told her gracious dame
+    A gladd woman then was shee:
+
+  But when the appointed day was come,
+    No helpe appeared nye:
+  Then woeful, woeful was her hart,
+    And the teares stood in her eye.
+
+  And nowe a fyer was built of wood;
+    And a stake was made of tree;
+  And now Queene Elinor forth was led,
+    A sorrowful sight to see.
+
+  Three times the herault he waved his hand,
+    And three times spake on hye:
+  Giff any good knight will fende this dame,
+    Come forth, or shee must dye.
+
+  No knight stood forth, no knight there came,
+    No helpe appeared nye:
+  And now the fyer was lighted up,
+    Queen Elinor she must dye.
+
+  And now the fyer was lighted up,
+    As hot as hot might bee;
+  When riding upon a little white steed,
+    The tinye boy they see.
+
+  "Away with that stake, away with those brands,
+    And loose our comelye queene:
+  I am come to fight with Sir Aldingar,
+    And prove him a traitor keene."
+
+  Forthe then stood Sir Aldingar,
+    But when he saw the chylde,
+  He laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe,
+    And weened he had been beguylde.
+
+  "Now turne, now turne thee, Aldingar,
+    And eyther fighte or flee;
+  I trust that I shall avenge the wronge,
+    Thoughe I am so small to see."
+
+  The boy pulld forth a well good sworde
+    So gilt it dazzled the ee;
+  The first stroke stricken at Aldingar,
+    Smote off his leggs by the knee.
+
+  "Stand up, stand up, thou false traitòr,
+    And fight upon thy feete,
+  For and thou thrive, as thou begin'st,
+    Of height wee shall be meete."
+
+  A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingàr,
+    While I am a man alive.
+  A priest, a priest, sayes Aldingàr,
+    Me for to houzle and shrive.
+
+  I wolde have laine by our comlie queene,
+    Bot shee wolde never consent;
+  Then I thought to betraye her unto our kinge
+    In a fyer to have her brent.
+
+  There came a lazar to the kings gates,
+    A lazar both blind and lame:
+  I tooke the lazar upon my backe,
+    And on her bedd had him layne.
+
+  Then ranne I to our comlye king,
+    These tidings sore to tell.
+  But ever alacke! sayes Aldingar,
+    Falsing never doth well.
+
+  Forgive, forgive me, queene, madame,
+    The short time I must live.
+  "Nowe Christ forgive thee, Aldingar,
+    As freely I forgive."
+
+  Here take thy queene, our king Harryè,
+    And love her as thy life,
+  For never had a king in Christentye.
+    A truer and fairer wife.
+
+  King Henrye ran to claspe his queene,
+    And loosed her full sone:
+  Then turned to look for the tinye boye;
+    --The boye was vanisht and gone.
+
+  But first he had touched the lazar man,
+    And stroakt him with his hand:
+  The lazar under the gallowes tree
+    All whole and sounde did stand.
+
+  The lazar under the gallowes tree
+    Was comelye, straight and tall;
+  King Henrye made him his head stewàrde
+    To wayte withinn his hall.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+EDOM O' GORDON
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  It fell about the Martinmas,
+    Quhen the wind blew shril and cauld,
+  Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,
+    We maun draw till a hauld.
+
+  And quhat a hauld sall we draw till,
+    My mirry men and me?
+  We wul gae to the house o' the Rodes,
+    To see that fair ladie.
+
+  The lady stude on her castle wa',
+    Beheld baith dale and down:
+  There she was ware of a host of men
+    Cum ryding towards the toun.
+
+  O see ze nat, my mirry men a'?
+    O see za nat quhat I see?
+  Methinks I see a host of men:
+    I marveil quha they be.
+
+  She weend it had been hir luvely lord,
+    As he cam ryding hame;
+  It was the traitor Edom o' Gordon,
+    Quha reckt nae sin nor shame.
+
+  She had nae sooner buskit hirsel,
+    And putten on hir goun,
+  But Edom o' Gordon and his men
+    Were round about the toun.
+
+  They had nae sooner supper sett,
+    Nae sooner said the grace,
+  But Edom o' Gordon and his men
+    Were light about the place.
+
+  The lady ran up to hir towir head,
+    Sa fast as she could hie,
+  To see if by hir fair speechès
+    She could wi' him agree.
+
+  But quhan he see this lady saif,
+    And hir yates all locked fast,
+  He fell into a rage of wrath,
+    And his look was all aghast.
+
+  Cum doun to me, ze lady gay,
+    Cum doun, cum doun to me:
+  This night sall ye lig within mine armes,
+    To-morrow my bride sall be.
+
+  I winnae cum doun ze fals Gordòn,
+    I winnae cum doun to thee;
+  I winna forsake my ain dear lord,
+    That is sae far frae me.
+
+  Give owre zour house, ze lady fair,
+    Give owre zour house to me,
+  Or I sall brenn yoursel therein,
+    Bot and zour babies three.
+
+  I winnae give owre, ze false Gordòn,
+    To nae sik traitor as zee;
+  And if ze brenn my ain dear babes,
+    My lord sall make ze drie.
+
+  But reach my pistoll, Glaud my man,
+    And charge ze weil my gun:
+  For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher,
+    My babes we been undone.
+
+  She stude upon hir castle wa',
+    And let twa bullets flee:
+  She mist that bluidy butchers hart,
+    And only raz'd his knee.
+
+  Set fire to the house, quo' fals Gordòn,
+    All wood wi' dule and ire:
+  Fals lady, ze sall rue this deid,
+    As ze bren in the fire.
+
+  Wae worth, wae worth ze, Jock my man,
+    I paid ze weil zour fee;
+  Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane,
+    Lets in the reek to me?
+
+  And ein wae worth ze, Jock my man,
+    I paid ze weil zour hire;
+  Quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane,
+    To me lets in the fire?
+
+  Ze paid me weil my hire, lady;
+    Ze paid me weil my fee:
+  But now I'm Edom o' Gordons man,
+    Maun either doe or die.
+
+  O than bespaik hir little son,
+    Sate on the nurses knee:
+  Sayes, Mither deare, gi' owre this house,
+    For the reek it smithers me.
+
+  I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe,
+    Say wald I a' my fee,
+  For ane blast o' the western wind,
+    To blaw the reek frae thee.
+
+  O then bespaik hir dochter dear,
+    She was baith jimp and sma;
+  O row me in a pair o' sheits,
+    And tow me owre the wa.
+
+  They rowd hir in a pair o' sheits,
+    And towd hir owre the wa:
+  But on the point of Gordons spear
+    She gat a deadly fa.
+
+  O bonnie bonnie was hir mouth,
+    And cherry were her cheiks,
+  And clear clear was hir zellow hair,
+    Whereon the reid bluid dreips.
+
+  Then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre,
+    O gin hir face was wan!
+  He sayd, Ze are the first that eir
+    I wisht alive again.
+
+  He turnd hir owre and owre againe,
+    O gin hir skin was whyte!
+  I might ha spared that bonnie face
+    To hae been sum mans delyte.
+
+  Busk and boun, my merry men a',
+    For ill dooms I doe guess;
+  I cannae luik in that bonnie face,
+    As it lyes on the grass.
+
+  Thame, luiks to freits, my master deir,
+    Then freits wil follow thame:
+  Let neir be said brave Edom o' Gordon
+    Was daunted by a dame.
+
+  But quhen the ladye see the fire
+    Cum flaming owre hir head,
+  She wept and kist her children twain,
+    Sayd, Bairns, we been but dead.
+
+  The Gordon then his bougill blew,
+    And said, Awa', awa';
+  This house o' the Rodes is a' in flame,
+    I hauld it time to ga'.
+
+  O then bespyed hir ain dear lord,
+    As hee cam owr the lee;
+  He sied his castle all in blaze     Sa far as he could see.
+
+  Then sair, O sair his mind misgave,
+    And all his hart was wae;
+  Put on, put on, my wighty men,
+    So fast as ze can gae.
+
+  Put on, put on, my wighty men,
+    Sa fast as ze can drie;
+  For he that is hindmost of the thrang
+    Sall neir get guid o' me.
+
+  Than sum they rade, and sum they rin,
+    Fou fast out-owr the bent;
+  But eir the foremost could get up,
+    Baith lady and babes were brent.
+
+  He wrang his hands, he rent his hair,
+    And wept in teenefu' muid:
+  O traitors, for this cruel deid
+    Ze sall weep tiers o' bluid.
+
+  And after the Gordon he is gane,
+    Sa fast as he might drie.
+  And soon i' the Gordon's foul hartis bluid
+    He's wroken his dear ladie.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+CHEVY CHASE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  God prosper long our noble king,
+    Our lives and safetyes all;
+  A woefull hunting once there did
+    In Chevy-Chace befall;
+
+  To drive the deere with hound and horne,
+    Erle Percy took his way,
+  The child may rue that is unborne,
+    The hunting of that day.
+
+  The stout Erle of Northumberland
+    A vow to God did make,
+  His pleasure in the Scottish woods
+    Three summers days to take;
+
+  The cheefest harts in Chevy-chace
+    To kill and beare away.
+  These tydings to Erle Douglas came,
+    In Scotland where he lay:
+
+  Who sent Erle Percy present word,
+    He wold prevent his sport.
+  The English erle, not fearing that,
+    Did to the woods resort
+
+  With fifteen hundred bow-men bold;
+    All chosen men of might,
+  Who knew full well in time of neede
+    To ayme their shafts arright.
+
+  The galland greyhounds swiftly ran,
+    To chase the fallow deere:
+  On munday they began to hunt,
+    Ere day-light did appeare;
+
+  And long before high noone they had
+    An hundred fat buckes slaine;
+  Then having dined, the drovyers went
+    To rouze the deare againe.
+
+  The bow-men mustered on the hills,
+    Well able to endure;
+  Theire backsides all, with speciall care,
+    That day were guarded sure.
+
+  The hounds ran swiftly through the woods,
+    The nimble deere to take,
+  That with their cryes the hills and dales
+    An eccho shrill did make.
+
+  Lord Percy to the quarry went,
+    To view the slaughter'd deere;
+  Quoth he, Erle Douglas promised
+    This day to meet me heere:
+
+  But if I thought he wold not come,
+    Noe longer wold I stay.
+  With that, a brave younge gentleman
+    Thus to the Erle did say:
+
+  Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come,
+    His men in armour bright;
+  Full twenty hundred Scottish speres
+    All marching in our sight;
+
+  All men of pleasant Tivydale,
+    Fast by the river Tweede:
+  O cease your sports, Erle Percy said,
+    And take your bowes with speede:
+
+  And now with me, my countrymen,
+    Your courage forth advance;
+  For there was never champion yett,
+    In Scotland nor in France,
+
+  That ever did on horsebacke come,
+    But if my hap it were,
+  I durst encounter man for man,
+    With him to break a spere.
+
+  Erle Douglas on his milke-white steede,
+    Most like a baron bolde,
+  Rode foremost of his company,
+    Whose armour shone like gold.
+
+  Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee,
+    That hunt soe boldly heere,
+  That, without my consent, doe chase
+    And kill my fallow-deere.
+
+  The first man that did answer make
+    Was noble Percy hee;
+  Who sayd, Wee list not to declare,
+    Nor shew whose men wee bee:
+  Yet wee will spend our deerest blood,
+    Thy cheefest harts to slay.
+  Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe,
+    And thus in rage did say,
+
+  Ere thus I will out-braved bee,
+    One of us two shall dye:
+  I know thee well, an erle thou art;
+    Lord Percy, soe am I.
+
+  But trust me, Percy, pittye it were,
+    And great offence to kill
+  Any of these our guiltlesse men,
+    For they have done no ill.
+
+  Let thou and I the battell trye,
+    And set our men aside.
+  Accurst bee he, Erle Percy sayd,
+    By whome this is denyed.
+
+  Then stept a gallant squier forth,
+    Witherington was his name,
+  Who said, I wold not have it told
+    To Henry our king for shame,
+
+  That ere my captaine fought on foote,
+    And I stood looking on.
+  You be two erles, sayd Witherington,
+    And I a squier alone:
+
+  He doe the best that doe I may,
+    While I have power to stand:
+  While I have power to weeld my sword
+    He fight with hart and hand.
+
+  Our English archers bent their bowes,
+    Their harts were good and trew;
+  Att the first flight of arrowes sent,
+    Full four-score Scots they slew.
+
+  Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent,
+    As Chieftain stout and good.
+  As valiant Captain, all unmov'd
+    The shock he firmly stood.
+
+  His host he parted had in three,
+    As Leader ware and try'd,
+  And soon his spearmen on their foes
+    Bare down on every side.
+
+  To drive the deere with hound and horne,
+    Douglas bade on the bent
+  Two captaines moved with mickle might
+    Their speres to shivers went.
+
+  Throughout the English archery
+    They dealt full many a wound:
+  But still our valiant Englishmen
+    All firmly kept their ground:
+
+  And throwing strait their bows away,
+    They grasp'd their swords so bright:
+  And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,
+    On shields and helmets light.
+
+  They closed full fast on every side,
+    Noe slackness there was found:
+  And many a gallant gentleman
+    Lay gasping on the ground.
+
+  O Christ! it was a griefe to see;
+    And likewise for to heare,
+  The cries of men lying in their gore,
+    And scattered here and there.
+
+  At last these two stout erles did meet,
+    Like captaines of great might:
+  Like lyons wood, they layd on lode,
+    And made a cruell fight:
+
+  They fought untill they both did sweat,
+    With swords of tempered steele;
+  Untill the blood, like drops of rain,
+    They tricklin downe did feele.
+
+  Yeeld thee, Lord Percy, Douglas sayd
+    In faith I will thee bringe,
+  Where thou shalt high advanced bee
+    By James our Scottish king:
+
+  Thy ransome I will freely give,
+    And this report of thee,
+  Thou art the most couragious knight,
+    That ever I did see.
+
+  Noe, Douglas, quoth Erle Percy then,
+    Thy proffer I doe scorne;
+  I will not yeelde to any Scott,
+    That ever yett was borne.
+
+  With that, there came an arrow keene
+    Out of an English bow,
+  Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart,
+    A deepe and deadlye blow:
+
+  Who never spake more words than these,
+    Fight on, my merry men all;
+  For why, my life is at an end;
+    Lord Percy sees my fall.
+
+  Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke
+    The dead man by the hand;
+  And said, Erle Douglas, for thy life
+    Wold I had lost my land.
+
+  O Christ! my verry hart doth bleed
+    With sorrow for thy sake;
+  For sure, a more redoubted knight
+    Mischance cold never take.
+
+  A knight amongst the Scotts there was
+    Which saw Erle Douglas dye,
+  Who streight in wrath did vow revenge
+    Upon the Lord Percye:
+
+  Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd,
+    Who, with a spere most bright,
+  Well-mounted on a gallant steed,
+    Ran fiercely through the fight;
+
+  And past the English archers all,
+    Without all dread or feare;
+  And through Earl Percyes body then
+    He thrust his hatefull spere;
+
+  With such a vehement force and might
+    He did his body gore,
+  The staff ran through the other side
+    A large cloth-yard and more.
+
+  So thus did both these nobles dye,
+    Whose courage none could staine:
+  An English archer then perceiv'd
+    The noble erle was slaine;
+
+  He had a bow bent in his hand,
+    Made of a trusty tree;
+  An arrow of a cloth-yard long
+    Up to the head drew hee:
+
+  Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye,
+    So right the shaft he sett,
+  The grey goose-winge that was thereon,
+    In his harts bloode was wette.
+
+  This fight did last from breake of day,
+    Till setting of the sun;
+  For when they rang the evening-bell,
+    The battel scarce was done.
+
+  With stout Erle Percy there was slaine
+    Sir John of Egerton,
+  Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,
+    Sir James that bold barròn:
+
+  And with Sir George and stout Sir James,
+    Both knights of good account,
+  Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine,
+    Whose prowesse did surmount.
+
+  For Witherington needs must I wayle,
+    As one in doleful dumpes;
+  For when his leggs were smitten off,
+    He fought upon his stumpes.
+
+  And with Erle Douglas, there was slaine
+    Sir Hugh Montgomerye,
+  Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld
+    One foote wold never flee.
+
+  Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too,
+    His sisters sonne was hee;
+  Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd,
+    Yet saved cold not bee.
+
+  And the Lord Maxwell in like case
+    Did with Erle Douglas dye:
+  Of twenty hundred Scottish speres,
+    Scarce fifty-five did flye.
+
+  Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,
+    Went home but fifty-three;
+  The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace,
+    Under the greene woode tree.
+
+  Next day did many widowes come,
+    Their husbands to bewayle;
+  They washt their wounds in brinish teares,
+    But all wold not prevayle.
+
+  Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore,
+    They bare with them away:
+  They kist them dead a thousand times,
+    Ere they were cladd in clay.
+
+  The news was brought to Eddenborrow,
+    Where Scottlands king did raigne,
+  That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye
+    Was with an arrow slaine:
+
+  O heavy newes, King James did say,
+    Scotland may witnesse bee,
+  I have not any captaine more
+    Of such account as hee.
+
+  Like tydings to King Henry came,
+    Within as short a space,
+  That Percy of Northumberland
+    Was slaine in Chevy-Chace:
+
+  Now God be with him, said our king,
+    Sith it will noe better bee;
+  I trust I have, within my realme,
+    Five hundred as good as hee:
+
+  Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say,
+    But I will vengeance take:
+  I'll be revenged on them all,
+    For brave Erle Percyes sake.
+
+  This vow full well the king perform'd
+    After, at Humbledowne;
+  In one day, fifty knights were slayne,
+    With lords of great renowne:
+
+  And of the rest, of small acount,
+    Did many thousands dye:
+  Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase,
+    Made by the Erle Percy.
+
+  God save our king, and bless this land
+    With plenty, joy, and peace;
+  And grant henceforth, that foule debate
+    'Twixt noblemen may cease.
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+
+
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+  When Arthur first in court began,
+    And was approved king,
+   By force of armes great victorys wanne,
+  And conquest home did bring,
+
+  Then into England straight he came
+    With fifty good and able
+  Knights, that resorted unto him,
+    And were of his round table:
+
+  And he had justs and turnaments,
+    Whereto were many prest,
+  Wherein some knights did far excell
+    And eke surmount the rest.
+
+  But one Sir Lancelot du Lake,
+    Who was approved well,
+  He for his deeds and feats of armes
+    All others did excell.
+
+  When he had rested him a while,
+    In play, and game, and sportt,
+  He said he wold goe prove himselfe
+    In some adventurous sort.
+
+  He armed rode in a forrest wide,
+    And met a damsell faire,
+  Who told him of adventures great,
+    Whereto he gave great eare.
+
+  Such wold I find, quoth Lancelott:
+    For that cause came I hither.
+  Thou seemest, quoth shee, a knight full good,
+    And I will bring thee thither.
+
+  Wheras a mighty knight doth dwell,
+    That now is of great fame:
+  Therefore tell me what wight thou art,
+    And what may be thy name.
+
+  "My name is Lancelot du Lake."
+    Quoth she, it likes me than:
+  Here dwelles a knight who never was
+    Yet matcht with any man:
+
+  Who has in prison threescore knights
+    And four, that he did wound;
+  Knights of King Arthurs court they be,
+    And of his table round.
+
+  She brought him to a river side,
+    And also to a tree,
+  Whereon a copper bason hung,
+    And many shields to see.
+
+  He struck soe hard, the bason broke;
+    And Tarquin soon he spyed:
+  Who drove a horse before him fast,
+    Whereon a knight lay tyed.
+
+  Sir knight, then sayd Sir Lancelett,
+    Bring me that horse-load hither,
+  And lay him downe, and let him rest;
+    Weel try our force together:
+
+  For, as I understand, thou hast,
+    So far as thou art able,
+  Done great despite and shame unto
+    The knights of the Round Table.
+
+  If thou be of the Table Round,
+    Quoth Tarquin speedilye,
+  Both thee and all thy fellowship
+    I utterly defye.
+
+  That's over much, quoth Lancelott tho,
+    Defend thee by and by.
+  They sett their speares unto their steeds,
+    And eache att other flie.
+
+  They coucht theire speares (their horses ran,
+    As though there had beene thunder),
+  And strucke them each immidst their shields,
+    Wherewith they broke in sunder.
+
+  Their horsses backes brake under them,
+    The knights were both astound:
+  To avoyd their horsses they made haste
+    And light upon the ground.
+
+  They tooke them to their shields full fast,
+    Their swords they drewe out than,
+  With mighty strokes most eagerlye
+    Each at the other ran.
+
+  They wounded were, and bled full sore,
+    They both for breath did stand,
+  And leaning on their swords awhile,
+    Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand,
+
+  And tell to me what I shall aske.
+    Say on, quoth Lancelot tho.
+  Thou art, quoth Tarquine, the best knight
+    That ever I did know:
+
+  And like a knight, that I did hate:
+    Soe that thou be not hee,
+  I will deliver all the rest,
+    And eke accord with thee.
+
+  That is well said, quoth Lancelott;
+    But sith it must be soe,
+  What knight is that thou hatest thus
+    I pray thee to me show.
+
+  His name is Lancelot du Lake,
+    He slew my brother deere;
+  Him I suspect of all the rest:
+    I would I had him here.
+
+  Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne,
+    I am Lancelot du Lake,
+  Now knight of Arthurs Table Round;
+    King Hauds son of Schuwake;
+
+  And I desire thee to do thy worst.
+    Ho, ho, quoth Tarquin tho'
+  One of us two shall ende our lives
+    Before that we do go.
+
+  If thou be Lancelot du Lake,
+    Then welcome shalt thou bee:
+  Wherfore see thou thyself defend,
+    For now defye I thee.
+
+  They buckled them together so,
+    Like unto wild boares rashing;
+  And with their swords and shields they ran
+    At one another slashing:
+
+  The ground besprinkled was with blood:
+    Tarquin began to yield;
+  For he gave backe for wearinesse,
+    And lowe did beare his shield.
+
+  This soone Sir Lancelot espyde,
+    He leapt upon him then,
+  He pull'd him downe upon his knee,
+    And rushing off his helm,
+
+  Forthwith he strucke his necke in two,
+    And, when he had soe done,
+  From prison threescore knights and four
+    Delivered everye one.
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+GIL MORRICE
+
+
+  Gil Morrice was an erles son,
+     His name it waxed wide;
+    It was nae for his great riches,
+  Nor zet his mickle pride;
+  Bot it was for a lady gay,
+    That livd on Carron side.
+
+  Quhair sail I get a bonny boy,
+    That will win hose and shoen;
+  That will gae to Lord Barnards ha',
+    And bid his lady cum?
+  And ze maun rin my errand, Willie;
+    And ze may rin wi' pride;
+  Quhen other boys gae on their foot
+    On horse-back ze sail ride.
+
+  O no! Oh no! my master dear!
+    I dare nae for my life;
+  I'll no gae to the bauld baròns,
+    For to triest furth his wife.
+  My bird Willie, my boy Willie;
+    My dear Willie, he sayd:
+  How can ze strive against the stream?
+    For I sall be obeyd.
+
+  Bot, O my master dear! he cryd,
+    In grene wod ze're zour lain;
+  Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede,
+    For fear ze should be tain.
+  Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',
+    Bid hir cum here wi speid:
+  If ze refuse my heigh command,
+    Ill gar zour body bleid.
+
+  Gae bid hir take this gay mantel,
+    'Tis a' gowd hot the hem;
+  Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,
+    And bring nane bot hir lain:
+  And there it is a silken sarke,
+    Hir ain hand sewd the sleive;
+  And bid hir cum to Gill Morice,
+    Speir nae bauld barons leave.
+
+  Yes, I will gae zour black errand,
+    Though it be to zour cost;
+  Sen ze by me will nae be warn'd,
+    In it ze sail find frost.
+  The baron he is a man of might,
+    He neir could bide to taunt,
+  As ze will see before its nicht,
+    How sma' ze hae to vaunt.
+
+  And sen I maun zour errand rin
+    Sae sair against my will,
+  I'se mak a vow and keip it trow,
+    It sall be done for ill.
+  And quhen he came to broken brigue,
+    He bent his bow and swam;
+  And quhen he came to grass growing,
+    Set down his feet and ran.
+
+  And quhen he came to Barnards ha',
+    Would neither chap nor ca':
+  Bot set his bent bow to his breist,
+    And lichtly lap the wa'.
+  He wauld nae tell the man his errand,
+    Though he stude at the gait;
+  Bot straiht into the ha' he cam,
+    Quhair they were set at meit.
+
+  Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame!
+    My message winna waite;
+  Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod
+    Before that it be late.
+  Ze're bidden tak this gay mantèl,
+    Tis a' gowd bot the hem:
+  Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode,
+    Ev'n by your sel alane.
+
+  And there it is, a silken sarke,
+    Your ain hand sewd the sleive;
+  Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice:
+    Speir nae bauld barons leave.
+  The lady stamped wi' hir foot,
+    And winked wi' hir ee;
+  Bot a' that she coud say or do,
+    Forbidden he wad nae bee.
+
+  Its surely to my bow'r-womàn;
+    It neir could be to me.
+  I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
+    I trow that ze be she.
+  Then up and spack the wylie nurse,
+    (The bairn upon hir knee)
+  If it be cum frae Gill Morice,
+    It's deir welcum to mee.
+
+  Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse,
+    Sae loud I heird zee lee;
+  I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
+    I trow ze be nae shee.
+  Then up and spack the bauld baròn,
+    An angry man was hee;
+  He's tain the table wi' his foot,
+    Sae has he wi' his knee;
+  Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish
+    In flinders he gard flee.
+
+  Gae bring a robe of zour clidìng,
+    That hings upon the pin;
+  And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,
+    And speik wi' zour lemmàn.
+  O bide at hame, now Lord Barnàrd,
+    I warde ze bide at hame;
+  Neir wyte a man for violence,
+    That neir wate ze wi' nane.
+
+  Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode,
+    He whistled and he sang:
+  O what mean a' the folk comìng,
+    My mother tarries lang.
+  His hair was like the threeds of gold,
+    Drawne frae Minerva's loome:
+  His lipps like roses drapping dew,
+    His breath was a' perfume.
+
+  His brow was like the mountain snae
+    Gilt by the morning beam:
+  His cheeks like living roses glow:
+    His een like azure stream.  The boy was clad in robes of grene,
+    Sweete as the infant spring:
+  And like the mavis on the bush,
+    He gart the vallies ring.
+
+  The baron came to the grene wode,
+    Wi' mickle dule and care,
+  And there he first spied Gill Morice
+    Kameing his zellow hair:
+  That sweetly wavd around his face,
+    That face beyond compare:
+  He sang sae sweet it might dispel
+    A' rage but fell despair.
+
+  Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morìce,
+    My lady loed thee weel,
+  The fairest part of my bodie
+    Is blacker than thy heel.
+  Zet neir the less now, Gill Morìce,
+    For a' thy great beautiè,
+  Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;
+    That head sall gae wi' me.
+
+  Now he has drawn his trusty brand,
+    And slaited on the strae;
+  And thro' Gill Morice' fair body
+    He's gar cauld iron gae.
+  And he has tain Gill Morice's head
+    And set it on a speir;
+  The meanest man in a' his train
+    Has gotten that head to bear.
+
+  And he has tain Gill Morice up,
+    Laid him across his steid,
+  And brocht him to his painted bowr,
+    And laid him on a bed.
+  The lady sat on castil wa',
+    Beheld baith dale and doun;
+  And there she saw Gill Morice' head
+    Cum trailing to the toun.
+
+  Far better I loe that bluidy head,
+    Both and that zellow hair,
+  Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands,
+    As they lig here and thair.
+  And she has tain her Gill Morice,
+    And kissd baith mouth and chin:
+  I was once as fow of Gill Morice,
+    As the hip is o' the stean.
+
+  I got ze in my father's house,
+    Wi' mickle sin and shame;
+  I brocht thee up in gude grene wode,
+    Under the heavy rain.
+  Oft have I by thy cradle sitten,
+    And fondly seen thee sleip;
+  But now I gae about thy grave,
+    The saut tears for to weip.
+
+  And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,
+    And syne his bluidy chin:
+  O better I loe my Gill Morice
+    Than a' my kith and kin!
+  Away, away, ze ill womàn,
+    And an il deith mait ze dee:
+  Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son,
+    He'd neir bin slain for mee.
+
+  Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard!
+    Obraid me not for shame!
+  Wi' that saim speir O pierce my heart!
+    And put me out o' pain.
+  Since nothing bot Gill Morice head
+    Thy jelous rage could quell,
+  Let that saim hand now tak hir life,
+    That neir to thee did ill.
+
+  To me nae after days nor nichts
+    Will eir be saft or kind;
+  I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,
+    And greet till I am blind.
+  Enouch of blood by me's been spilt,
+    Seek not zour death frae mee;
+  I rather lourd it had been my sel
+    Than eather him or thee.
+
+  With waefo wae I hear zour plaint;
+    Sair, sair I rew the deid,
+  That eir this cursed hand of mine
+    Had gard his body bleid.
+  Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame,
+    Ze neir can heal the wound;
+  Ze see his head upon the speir,
+    His heart's blude on the ground.
+
+  I curse the hand that did the deid,
+    The heart that thocht the ill;
+  The feet that bore me wi' sik speid,
+    The comely zouth to kill.
+  I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,
+    As gin he were mine ain;
+  I'll neir forget the dreiry day
+    On which the zouth was slain.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+The CHILD of ELLE
+
+
+  On yondre hill a castle standes
+    With walles and towres bedight,
+   And yonder lives the Child of Elle,
+  A younge and comely knighte.
+
+  The Child of Elle to his garden went,
+    And stood at his garden pale,
+  Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page
+    Come trippinge downe the dale.
+
+  The Child of Elle he hyed him thence,
+    Y-wis he stoode not stille,
+  And soone he mette faire Emmelines page
+    Come climbinge up the hille.
+
+  Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page,
+    Now Christe thee save and see!
+  Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye,
+    And what may thy tydinges bee?
+
+  My ladye shee is all woe-begone,
+    And the teares they falle from her eyne;
+  And aye she laments the deadlye feude
+    Betweene her house and thine.
+
+  And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe
+    Bedewde with many a teare,
+  And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her,
+    Who loved thee so deare.
+
+  And here shee sends thee a ring of golde
+    The last boone thou mayst have,
+  And biddes thee weare it for her sake,
+    Whan she is layde in grave.
+
+  For, ah! her gentle heart is broke,
+    And in grave soone must shee bee,
+  Sith her father hath chose her a new new love,
+    And forbidde her to think of thee.
+
+  Her father hath brought her a carlish knight,
+    Sir John of the north countràye,
+  And within three dayes she must him wedde,
+    Or he vowes he will her slaye.
+
+  Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
+    And greet thy ladye from mee,
+  And telle her that I her owne true love
+    Will dye, or sette her free.
+
+  Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
+    And let thy fair ladye know
+  This night will I bee at her bowre-windòwe,
+    Betide me weale or woe.
+
+  The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne,
+    He neither stint ne stayd
+  Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre,
+    Whan kneeling downe he sayd,
+
+  O ladye, I've been with thine own true love,
+    And he greets thee well by mee;
+  This night will hee bee at thy bowre-windòwe,
+    And dye or sett thee free.
+
+  Nowe daye was gone, and night was come,
+    And all were fast asleepe,
+  All save the Ladye Emmeline,
+    Who sate in her bowre to weepe:
+
+  And soone shee heard her true loves voice
+    Lowe whispering at the walle,
+  Awake, awake, my deare ladyè,
+    Tis I thy true love call.
+
+  Awake, awake, my ladye deare,
+    Come, mount this faire palfràye:
+  This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe
+    He carrye thee hence awaye.
+
+  Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight,
+    Nowe nay, this may not bee;
+  For aye shold I tint my maiden fame,
+    If alone I should wend with thee.
+
+  O ladye, thou with a knighte so true
+    Mayst safelye wend alone,
+  To my ladye mother I will thee bringe,
+    Where marriage shall make us one.
+
+  "My father he is a baron bolde,
+    Of lynage proude and hye;
+  And what would he saye if his daughtèr
+    Awaye with a knight should fly
+
+  "Ah! well I wot, he never would rest,
+    Nor his meate should doe him no goode,
+  Until he hath slayne thee, Child of Elle,
+    And scene thy deare hearts bloode."
+
+  O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,
+    And a little space him fro,
+  I would not care for thy cruel fathèr,
+    Nor the worst that he could doe.
+
+  O ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette,
+    And once without this walle,
+  I would not care for thy cruel fathèr
+    Nor the worst that might befalle.
+
+  Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept,
+    And aye her heart was woe:
+  At length he seized her lilly-white hand,
+    And downe the ladder he drewe:
+
+  And thrice he clasped her to his breste,
+    And kist her tenderlìe:
+  The teares that fell from her fair eyes
+    Ranne like the fountayne free.
+
+  Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle,
+    And her on a fair palfràye,
+  And slung his bugle about his necke,
+    And roundlye they rode awaye.
+
+  All this beheard her owne damsèlle,
+    In her bed whereas shee ley,
+  Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this,
+    Soe I shall have golde and fee.
+
+  Awake, awake, thou baron bolde!
+    Awake, my noble dame!
+  Your daughter is fledde with the Child of Elle
+    To doe the deede of shame.
+
+  The baron he woke, the baron he rose,
+    And called his merrye men all:
+  "And come thou forth, Sir John the knighte,
+    Thy ladye is carried to thrall."
+
+  Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile,
+    A mile forth of the towne,
+  When she was aware of her fathers men
+    Come galloping over the downe:
+
+  And foremost came the carlish knight,
+    Sir John of the north countràye:
+  "Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitòure,
+    Nor carry that ladye awaye.
+
+  "For she is come of hye lineàge,
+    And was of a ladye borne,
+  And ill it beseems thee, a false churl's sonne,
+    To carrye her hence to scorne."
+
+  Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight,
+    Nowe thou doest lye of mee;
+  A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore,
+    Soe never did none by thee
+
+  But light nowe downe, my ladye faire,
+    Light downe, and hold my steed,
+  While I and this discourteous knighte
+    Doe trye this arduous deede.
+
+  But light now downe, my deare ladyè,
+    Light downe, and hold my horse;
+  While I and this discourteous knight
+    Doe trye our valour's force.
+
+  Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept,
+    And aye her heart was woe,
+  While twixt her love and the carlish knight
+    Past many a baleful blowe.
+
+  The Child of Elle hee fought so well,
+    As his weapon he waved amaine,
+  That soone he had slaine the carlish knight,
+    And layd him upon the plaine.
+
+  And nowe the baron and all his men
+    Full fast approached nye:
+  Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe
+    Twere nowe no boote to flye.
+
+  Her lover he put his horne to his mouth,
+    And blew both loud and shrill,
+  And soone he saw his owne merry men
+    Come ryding over the hill.
+
+  "Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baròn,
+    I pray thee hold thy hand,
+  Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts
+    Fast knit in true love's band.
+
+  Thy daughter I have dearly loved
+    Full long and many a day;
+  But with such love as holy kirke
+    Hath freelye sayd wee may.
+
+  O give consent, shee may be mine,
+    And blesse a faithfull paire:
+  My lands and livings are not small,
+    My house and lineage faire:
+
+  My mother she was an earl's daughtèr,
+    And a noble knyght my sire--
+  The baron he frowned, and turn'd away
+    With mickle dole and ire.
+
+  Fair Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept,
+    And did all tremblinge stand:
+  At lengthe she sprang upon her knee,
+    And held his lifted hand.
+
+  Pardon, my lorde and father deare,
+    This faire yong knyght and mee:
+  Trust me, but for the carlish knyght,
+    I never had fled from thee.
+
+  Oft have you called your Emmeline
+    Your darling and your joye;
+  O let not then your harsh resolves
+    Your Emmeline destroye.
+
+  The baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke,
+    And turned his heade asyde
+  To whipe awaye the starting teare
+    He proudly strave to hyde.
+
+  In deepe revolving thought he stoode,
+    And mused a little space;
+  Then raised faire Emmeline from the grounde,
+    With many a fond embrace.
+
+  Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd,
+    And gave her lillye white hand;
+  Here take my deare and only child,
+    And with her half my land:
+
+  Thy father once mine honour wrongde
+    In dayes of youthful pride;
+  Do thou the injurye repayre
+    In fondnesse for thy bride.
+
+  And as thou love her, and hold her deare,
+    Heaven prosper thee and thine:
+  And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee,
+    My lovelye Emmeline.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+
+CHILD WATERS
+
+
+  Childe Waters in his stable stoode
+    And stroakt his milke white steede:
+  To him a fayre yonge ladye came
+    As ever ware womans weede.
+
+  Sayes, Christ you save, good Childe Waters;
+    Sayes, Christ you save, and see:
+  My girdle of gold that was too longe,
+    Is now too short for mee.
+
+  And all is with one chyld of yours,
+    I feel sturre att my side:
+  My gowne of greene it is too straighte;
+    Before, it was too wide.
+
+  If the child be mine, faire Ellen, he sayd,
+    Be mine, as you tell mee;
+  Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    Take them your owne to bee.
+
+  If the childe be mine, fair Ellen, he sayd,
+    Be mine, as you doe sweare;
+  Then take you Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    And make that child your heyre.
+
+  Shee saies, I had rather have one kisse,
+    Child Waters, of thy mouth;
+  Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    That laye by north and south.
+
+  And I had rather have one twinkling,
+    Childe Waters, of thine ee;
+  Then I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
+    To take them mine owne to bee.
+
+  To morrow, Ellen, I must forth ryde
+    Farr into the north countrie;
+  The fairest lady that I can find,
+    Ellen, must goe with mee.
+
+  'Thoughe I am not that lady fayre,
+    'Yet let me go with thee:'
+  And ever I pray you, Child Watèrs,
+    Your foot-page let me bee.
+
+  If you will my foot-page be, Ellen,
+    As you doe tell to mee;
+  Then you must cut your gowne of greene,
+    An inch above your knee:
+
+  Soe must you doe your yellow lockes,
+    An inch above your ee:
+  You must tell no man what is my name;
+    My foot-page then you shall bee.
+
+  Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode,
+    Ran barefoote by his side;
+  Yett was he never soe courteous a knighte,
+    To say, Ellen, will you ryde?
+
+  Shee, all the long day Child Waters rode,
+    Ran barefoote thorow the broome;
+  Yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte,
+    To say, put on your shoone.
+
+  Ride softlye, shee sayd, O Childe Waters,
+    Why doe you ryde soe fast?
+  The childe, which is no mans but thine,
+    My bodye itt will brast.
+
+  Hee sayth, seeth thou yonder water, Ellen,
+    That flows from bank to brimme?--
+  I trust to God, O Child Waters,
+    You never will see mee swimme.
+
+  But when shee came to the waters side,
+    Shee sayled to the chinne:
+  Except the Lord of heaven be my speed,
+    Now must I learne to swimme.
+
+  The salt waters bare up her clothes;
+    Our Ladye bare upp her chinne:
+  Childe Waters was a woe man, good Lord,
+    To see faire Ellen swimme.
+
+  And when shee over the water was,
+    Shee then came to his knee:
+  He said, Come hither, thou fair Ellèn,
+    Loe yonder what I see.
+
+  Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?
+    Of redd gold shines the yate;
+  Of twenty foure faire ladyes there,
+    The fairest is my mate.
+
+  Seest thou not yonder hall, Ellen?
+    Of redd gold shines the towre:
+  There are twenty four fair ladyes there,
+    The fairest is my paramoure.
+
+  I see the hall now, Child Waters,
+    Of redd golde shines the yate:
+  God give you good now of yourselfe,
+    And of your worthye mate.
+
+  I see the hall now, Child Waters,
+    Of redd gold shines the towre:
+  God give you good now of yourselfe,
+    And of your paramoure.
+
+  There twenty four fayre ladyes were
+    A playing att the ball:
+  And Ellen the fairest ladye there,
+    Must bring his steed to the stall.
+
+  There twenty four fayre ladyes were
+    A playinge at the chesse;
+  And Ellen the fayrest ladye there,
+    Must bring his horse to gresse.
+
+  And then bespake Childe Waters sister,
+    These were the wordes said shee:
+  You have the prettyest foot-page, brother,
+    That ever I saw with mine ee.
+
+  But that his bellye it is soe bigg,
+    His girdle goes wonderous hie:
+  And let him, I pray you, Childe Watères,
+    Goe into the chamber with mee.
+
+  It is not fit for a little foot-page,
+    That has run throughe mosse and myre,
+  To go into the chamber with any ladye,
+    That weares soe riche attyre.
+
+  It is more meete for a litle foot-page,
+    That has run throughe mosse and myre,
+  To take his supper upon his knee,
+    And sitt downe by the kitchen fyer.
+
+  But when they had supped every one,
+    To bedd they tooke theyr waye:
+  He sayd, come hither, my little foot-page,
+    And hearken what I saye.
+
+  Goe thee downe into yonder towne,
+    And low into the street;
+  The fayrest ladye that thou can finde,
+
+    Hyer her in mine armes to sleepe,
+  And take her up in thine armes twaine,
+    For filinge of her feete.
+
+  Ellen is gone into the towne,
+    And low into the streete:
+  The fairest ladye that she cold find,
+    Shee hyred in his armes to sleepe;
+  And tooke her up in her armes twayne,
+    For filing of her feete.
+
+  I pray you nowe, good Child Watèrs,
+    Let mee lye at your bedds feete:
+  For there is noe place about this house,
+    Where I may 'saye a sleepe.
+
+  'He gave her leave, and faire Ellèn
+    'Down at his beds feet laye:'
+  This done the nighte drove on apace,
+    And when it was neare the daye,
+
+  Hee sayd, Rise up, my litle foot-page,
+    Give my steede corne and haye;
+  And soe doe thou the good black oats,
+    To carry mee better awaye.
+
+  Up then rose the faire Ellèn,
+    And gave his steede corne and hay:
+  And soe shee did the good blacke oats,
+    To carry him the better away.
+
+  Shee leaned her backe to the manger side,
+    And grievouslye did groane:
+  Shee leaned her backe to the manger side,
+    And there shee made her moane.
+
+  And that beheard his mother deere,
+    Shee heard her there monand.
+  Shee sayd, Rise up, thou Childe Watèrs,
+    I think thee a cursed man.
+
+  For in thy stable is a ghost,
+    That grievouslye doth grone:
+  Or else some woman laboures of childe,
+    She is soe woe-begone.
+
+  Up then rose Childe Waters soon,
+    And did on his shirte of silke;
+  And then he put on his other clothes,
+    On his body as white as milke.
+
+  And when he came to the stable dore,
+    Full still there he did stand,
+  That hee mighte heare his fayre Ellèn
+    Howe shee made her monànd.
+
+  Shee sayd, Lullabye, mine owne deere child,
+    Lullabye, dere child, dere;
+  I wold thy father were a king,
+    Thy mother layd on a biere.
+
+  Peace now, he said, good faire Ellèn,
+    Be of good cheere, I praye;
+  And the bridal and the churching both
+    Shall bee upon one day.
+
+
+
+
+[Image]
+
+KING EDWARD IV & THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH
+
+
+  In summer time, when leaves grow greene,
+     And blossoms bedecke the tree,
+  King Edward wolde a hunting ryde,
+    Some pastime for to see.
+
+  With hawke and hounde he made him bowne,
+    With horne, and eke with bowe;
+  To Drayton Basset he tooke his waye,
+    With all his lordes a rowe.
+
+  And he had ridden ore dale and downe
+    By eight of clocke in the day,
+  When he was ware of a bold tannèr,
+    Come ryding along the waye.
+
+  A fayre russet coat the tanner had on
+    Fast buttoned under his chin,
+  And under him a good cow-hide,
+    And a marc of four shilling.
+
+  Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all,
+    Under the grene wood spraye;
+  And I will wend to yonder fellowe,
+    To weet what he will saye.
+
+  God speede, God speede thee, said our king.
+    Thou art welcome, Sir, sayd hee.
+  "The readyest waye to Drayton Basset
+    I praye thee to shew to mee."
+
+  "To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe,
+    Fro the place where thou dost stand?
+  The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto,
+    Turne in upon thy right hand."
+
+  That is an unreadye waye, sayd our king,
+    Thou doest but jest, I see;
+  Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye,
+    And I pray thee wend with mee.
+
+  Away with a vengeance! quoth the tanner:
+    I hold thee out of thy witt:
+  All daye have I rydden on Brocke my mare,
+    And I am fasting yett.
+
+  "Go with me downe to Drayton Basset,
+    No daynties we will spare;
+  All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best,
+    And I will paye thy fare."
+
+  Gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde,
+    Thou payest no fare of mine:
+  I trowe I've more nobles in my purse,
+    Than thou hast pence in thine.
+
+  God give thee joy of them, sayd the king,
+    And send them well to priefe.
+  The tanner wolde faine have beene away,
+    For he weende he had beene a thiefe.
+
+  What art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellowe,
+    Of thee I am in great feare,
+  For the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back,
+    Might beseeme a lord to weare.
+
+  I never stole them, quoth our king,
+    I tell you, Sir, by the roode.
+  "Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth,
+    And standest in midds of thy goode."
+
+  What tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge,
+    As you ryde farre and neare?
+  "I heare no tydinges, Sir, by the masse,
+    But that cowe-hides are deare."
+
+  "Cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those?
+     I marvell what they bee?"
+  What, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd;
+    I carry one under mee.
+
+  What craftsman art thou, said the king,
+    I pray thee tell me trowe.
+  "I am a barker, Sir, by my trade;
+    Nowe tell me what art thou?"
+
+  I am a poor courtier, Sir, quoth he,
+    That am forth of service worne;
+  And faine I wolde thy prentise bee,
+    Thy cunninge for to learne.
+
+  Marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde,
+    That thou my prentise were:
+  Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne
+    By fortye shilling a yere.
+
+  Yet one thinge wolde I, sayd our king,
+    If thou wilt not seeme strange:
+  Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare,
+    Yet with thee I fain wold change.
+
+  "Why if with me thou faine wilt change,
+    As change full well maye wee,
+  By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe
+    I will have some boot of thee."
+
+  That were against reason, sayd the king,
+    I sweare, so mote I thee:
+  My horse is better than thy mare,
+    And that thou well mayst see.
+
+  "Yea, Sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild,
+    And softly she will fare:
+  Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss;
+    Aye skipping here and theare."
+
+  What boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd;
+    Now tell me in this stound.
+  "Noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye,
+    But a noble in gold so round.
+
+  "Here's twentye groates of white moneye,
+    Sith thou will have it of mee."
+  I would have sworne now, quoth the tanner,
+    Thou hadst not had one pennie.
+
+  But since we two have made a change,
+    A change we must abide,
+  Although thou hast gotten Brocke my mare,
+    Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.
+
+  I will not have it, sayd the kynge,
+    I sweare, so mought I thee;
+  Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare,
+    If thou woldst give it to mee.
+
+  The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide,
+    That of the cow was bilt;
+  And threwe it upon the king's sadelle,
+    That was soe fayrelye gilte.
+  "Now help me up, thou fine fellowe,
+    'Tis time that I were gone:
+  When I come home to Gyllian my wife,
+    Sheel say I am a gentilmon."
+
+  The king he tooke him up by the legge;
+    The tanner a f----- lett fall.
+  Nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the king,
+    Thy courtesye is but small.
+
+  When the tanner he was in the kinges sadèlle,
+    And his foote in the stirrup was;
+  He marvelled greatlye in his minde,
+    Whether it were golde or brass.
+
+  But when the steede saw the cows taile wagge,
+    And eke the blacke cowe-horne;
+  He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne,
+    As the devill had him borne.
+
+  The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat,
+    And held by the pummil fast:
+  At length the tanner came tumbling downe;
+    His necke he had well-nye brast.
+
+  Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd,
+    With mee he shall not byde.
+  "My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe,
+    But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide.
+
+  Yet if againe thou faine woldst change,
+    As change full well may wee,
+  By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tannèr,
+    I will have some boote of thee."
+
+  What boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd,
+    Nowe tell me in this stounde.
+  "Noe pence nor halfpence, Sir, by my faye,
+    But I will have twentye pound."
+
+  "Here's twentye groates out of my purse;
+    And twentye I have of thine:
+  And I have one more, which we will spend
+    Together at the wine."
+
+  The king set a bugle home to his mouthe,
+    And blewe both loude and shrille:
+  And soone came lords, and soone came knights,
+    Fast ryding over the hille.
+
+  Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde,
+    That ever I sawe this daye!
+  Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes     Will beare my
+cowe-hide away.
+
+  They are no thieves, the king replyde,
+    I sweare, soe mote I thee:
+  But they are the lords of the north countrèy,
+    Here come to hunt with mee.
+
+  And soone before our king they came,
+    And knelt downe on the grounde:
+  Then might the tanner have beene awaye,
+    He had lever than twentye pounde.
+
+  A coller, a coller, here: sayd the king,
+    A coller he loud gan crye:
+  Then woulde he lever than twentye pound,
+    He had not beene so nighe.
+
+  A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd,
+    I trowe it will breed sorrowe:
+  After a coller cometh a halter,
+    I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrowe.
+
+  Be not afraid, tanner, said our king;
+    I tell thee, so mought I thee,
+  Lo here I make thee the best esquire
+    That is in the North countrie.
+
+  For Plumpton-parke I will give thee,
+    With tenements faire beside:
+  'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,
+    To maintaine thy good cowe-hide.
+
+  Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde,
+    For the favour thou hast me showne;
+  If ever thou comest to merry Tamwòrth,
+    Neates leather shall clout thy shoen.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+
+
+  The king sits in Dumferling toune,
+    Drinking the blude-reid wine:
+  O quhar will I get guid sailòr,
+    To sail this schip of mine.
+
+  Up and spak an eldern knicht,
+    Sat at the kings richt kne:
+  Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailòr,
+    That sails upon the se.
+
+  The king has written a braid letter,
+    And signd it wi' his hand;
+  And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
+    Was walking on the sand.
+
+  The first line that Sir Patrick red,
+    A loud lauch lauched he:
+  The next line that Sir Patrick red,
+    The teir blinded his ee.
+
+  O quha is this has don this deid,
+    This ill deid don to me;
+  To send me out this time o' the zeir,
+    To sail upon the se.
+
+  Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,
+    Our guid schip sails the morne,
+  O say na sae, my master deir,
+    For I feir a deadlie storme.
+
+  Late late yestreen I saw the new moone
+    Wi' the auld moone in hir arme;
+  And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
+    That we will com to harme.
+
+  O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
+    To weet their cork-heild schoone;
+  Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
+    Thair hats they swam aboone.
+
+  O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit
+    Wi' thair fans into their hand,
+  Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens
+    Cum sailing to the land.
+
+  O lang, lang, may the ladies stand
+    Wi' thair gold kems in their hair,
+  Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
+    For they'll se thame na mair.
+
+  Have owre, have owre to Aberdour,
+    It's fiftie fadom deip:
+  And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens,
+    Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.
+
+
+
+
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+
+
+  It was intill a pleasant time,
+    Upon a simmer's day,
+  The noble Earl of Mar's daughter
+  Went forth to sport and play.
+
+  As thus she did amuse hersell,
+    Below a green aik tree,
+  There she saw a sprightly doo
+    Set on a tower sae hie.
+
+  "O cow-me-doo, my love sae true,
+    If ye'll come down to me,
+  Ye 'se hae a cage o guid red gowd
+    Instead o simple tree:
+
+  "I'll put growd hingers roun your cage,
+    And siller roun your wa;
+  I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird
+    As ony o them a'."
+
+  But she hadnae these words well spoke,
+    Nor yet these words well said,
+  Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower
+    And lighted on her head.
+
+  Then she has brought this pretty bird
+    Hame to her bowers and ba,
+  And made him shine as fair a bird
+    As ony o them a'.
+
+  When day was gane, and night was come,
+    About the evening tide,
+  This lady spied a sprightly youth
+    Stand straight up by her side.
+
+  "From whence came ye, young man?" she said;
+    "That does surprise me sair;
+  My door was bolted right secure,
+    What way hae ye come here?"
+
+  "O had your tongue, ye lady fair,
+    Lat a' your folly be;
+  Mind ye not on your turtle-doo
+    Last day ye brought wi thee?"
+
+  "O tell me mair, young man," she said,
+    "This does surprise me now;
+  What country hae ye come frae?
+    What pedigree are you?"
+
+  "My mither lives on foreign isles,
+    She has nae mair but me;
+  She is a queen o wealth and state,
+    And birth and high degree.
+
+  "Likewise well skilld in magic spells,
+    As ye may plainly see,
+  And she transformd me to yon shape,
+    To charm such maids as thee.
+
+  "I am a doo the live-lang day,
+    A sprightly youth at night;
+  This aye gars me appear mair fair
+    In a fair maiden's sight.
+
+  "And it was but this verra day
+    That I came ower the sea;
+  Your lovely face did me enchant;
+    I'll live and dee wi thee."
+
+  "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,
+    Nae mair frae me ye 'se gae;
+  That's never my intent, my luve,
+    As ye said, it shall be sae."
+
+  "O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,
+    It's time to gae to bed;"
+  "Wi a' my heart, my dear marrow,
+    It's be as ye hae said."
+
+  Then he has staid in bower wi her
+    For sax lang years and ane,
+  Till sax young sons to him she bare,
+    And the seventh she's brought hame.
+
+  But aye as ever a child was born
+    He carried them away,
+  And brought them to his mither's care,
+    As fast as he coud fly.
+
+  Thus he has staid in bower wi her
+    For twenty years and three;
+  There came a lord o high renown
+    To court this fair ladie.
+
+  But still his proffer she refused,
+    And a' his presents too;
+  Says, I'm content to live alane
+    Wi my bird, Cow-me-doo.
+
+  Her father sware a solemn oath
+    Amang the nobles all,
+  "The morn, or ere I eat or drink,
+    This bird I will gar kill."
+
+  The bird was sitting in his cage,
+    And heard what they did say;
+  And when he found they were dismist,
+    Says, Wae's me for this day!
+
+  "Before that I do langer stay,
+    And thus to be forlorn,
+  I'll gang unto my mither's bower,
+    Where I was bred and born."
+
+  Then Cow-me-doo took flight and flew
+    Beyond the raging sea,
+  And lighted near his mither's castle,
+    On a tower o gowd sae hie.
+
+  As his mither was wauking out,
+    To see what she coud see,
+  And there she saw her little son,
+    Set on the tower sae hie.
+
+  "Get dancers here to dance," she said,
+    "And minstrells for to play;
+  For here's my young son, Florentine,
+    Come here wi me to stay."
+
+  "Get nae dancers to dance, mither,
+    Nor minstrells for to play,
+  For the mither o my seven sons,
+    The morn's her wedding-day."
+
+  "O tell me, tell me, Florentine,
+    Tell me, and tell me true,
+  Tell me this day without a flaw,
+    What I will do for you."
+
+  "Instead of dancers to dance, mither,
+    Or minstrells for to play,
+  Turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men
+    Like storks in feathers gray;
+
+  "My seven sons in seven swans,
+    Aboon their heads to flee;
+  And I mysell a gay gos-hawk,
+    A bird o high degree."
+
+  Then sichin said the queen hersell,
+    "That thing's too high for me;"
+  But she applied to an auld woman,
+    Who had mair skill than she.
+
+  Instead o dancers to dance a dance,
+    Or minstrells for to play,
+  Four-and-twenty wall-wight men
+    Turnd birds o feathers gray;
+
+  Her seven sons in seven swans,
+    Aboon their heads to flee;
+  And he himsell a gay gos-hawk,
+    A bird o high degree.
+
+  This flock o birds took flight and flew
+    Beyond the raging sea,
+  And landed near the Earl Mar's castle,
+    Took shelter in every tree.
+
+  They were a flock o pretty birds,
+    Right comely to be seen;
+  The people viewed them wi surprise,
+    As they dancd on the green.
+
+  These birds ascended frae the tree
+    And lighted on the ha,
+  And at the last wi force did flee
+    Amang the nobles a'.
+
+  The storks there seized some o the men,
+    They coud neither fight nor flee;
+  The swans they bound the bride's best man
+    Below a green aik tree.
+
+  They lighted next on maidens fair,
+    Then on the bride's own head,
+  And wi the twinkling o an ee
+    The bride and them were fled.
+
+  There's ancient men at weddings been
+    For sixty years or more,
+  But sic a curious wedding-day
+    They never saw before.
+
+  For naething coud the companie do.
+    Nor naething coud they say
+  But they saw a flock o pretty birds
+    That took their bride away.
+
+  When that Earl Mar he came to know
+    Where his dochter did stay,
+  He signd a bond o unity,
+    And visits now they pay.
+
+
+
+
+EDWARD, EDWARD.
+
+
+  Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid,
+                                Edward, Edward?
+  Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid?
+            And quhy sae sad gang zee, O?
+  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
+                                 Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid:
+                   And I had nae mair bot hee, O.
+
+  Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
+                                  Edward, Edward.
+  Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
+                    My deir son I tell thee, O.
+  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
+                                  Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
+                   That erst was sae fair and free, O.
+
+  Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
+                                  Edward, Edward;
+  Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
+                   Sum other dule ze drie, O.
+  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
+                                  Mither, mither:
+  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
+                   Alas! and wae is mee, O!
+
+  And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that,
+                               Edward, Edward?
+  And quhatten penance will ze drie for that?
+                 My deir son, now tell mee, O.
+  He set my feit in zonder boat,
+                                Mither, mither:
+  He set my feit in zonder boat,
+                    And He fare ovir the sea, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
+                                 Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
+                  That were sae fair to see, O?
+  He let thame stand til they doun fa',
+                                   Mither, mither:
+  He let thame stand til they doun fa',
+                    For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
+                                      Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
+                      Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O?
+  The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,
+                                     Mither, mither;
+  The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,
+                   For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.
+
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir,
+                                 Edward, Edward?
+  And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir?
+                    My deir son, now tell me, O.
+  The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir,
+                                 Mither, mither:
+  The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir,
+                 Sic counseils ze gave to me, O.
+
+
+
+KING LEIR & HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+
+
+  King Leir once ruled in this land
+    With princely power and peace;
+  And had all things with hearts content,
+    That might his joys increase.
+  Amongst those things that nature gave,
+    Three daughters fair had he,
+  So princely seeming beautiful,
+    As fairer could not be.
+
+  So on a time it pleas'd the king
+    A question thus to move,
+  Which of his daughters to his grace
+    Could shew the dearest love:
+  For to my age you bring content,
+    Quoth he, then let me hear,
+  Which of you three in plighted troth
+    The kindest will appear.
+
+  To whom the eldest thus began;
+    Dear father, mind, quoth she,
+  Before your face, to do you good,
+    My blood shall render'd be:
+  And for your sake my bleeding heart
+    Shall here be cut in twain,
+  Ere that I see your reverend age
+    The smallest grief sustain.
+
+  And so will I, the second said;
+    Dear father, for your sake,
+  The worst of all extremities
+    I'll gently undertake:
+  And serve your highness night and day
+    With diligence and love;
+  That sweet content and quietness
+    Discomforts may remove.
+
+  In doing so, you glad my soul,
+    The aged king reply'd;
+  But what sayst thou, my youngest girl,
+    How is thy love ally'd?
+  My love (quoth young Cordelia then)
+    Which to your grace I owe,
+  Shall be the duty of a child,
+    And that is all I'll show.
+
+  And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he,
+    Than doth thy duty bind?
+  I well perceive thy love is small,
+    When as no more I find.
+  Henceforth I banish thee my court,
+    Thou art no child of mine;
+  Nor any part of this my realm
+    By favour shall be thine.
+
+  Thy elder sisters loves are more
+    Then well I can demand,
+  To whom I equally bestow
+    My kingdome and my land,
+  My pompal state and all my goods,
+    That lovingly I may
+  With those thy sisters be maintain'd
+    Until my dying day.
+
+  Thus flattering speeches won renown,
+    By these two sisters here;
+  The third had causeless banishment,
+    Yet was her love more dear:
+  For poor Cordelia patiently
+    Went wandring up and down,
+  Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,
+    Through many an English town:
+
+  Untill at last in famous France
+    She gentler fortunes found;
+  Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd
+    The fairest on the ground:
+  Where when the king her virtues heard,
+    And this fair lady seen,
+  With full consent of all his court
+    He made his wife and queen.
+
+  Her father king Leir this while
+    With his two daughters staid:
+  Forgetful of their promis'd loves,
+    Full soon the same decay'd;
+  And living in queen Ragan's court,
+    The eldest of the twain,
+  She took from him his chiefest means,
+    And most of all his train.
+
+  For whereas twenty men were wont
+    To wait with bended knee:
+  She gave allowance but to ten,
+    And after scarce to three;
+  Nay, one she thought too much for him;
+    So took she all away,
+  In hope that in her court, good king,
+    He would no longer stay.
+
+  Am I rewarded thus, quoth he,
+    In giving all I have
+  Unto my children, and to beg
+    For what I lately gave?
+  I'll go unto my Gonorell:
+    My second child, I know,
+  Will be more kind and pitiful,
+    And will relieve my woe.
+
+  Full fast he hies then to her court;
+    Where when she heard his moan
+  Return'd him answer, That she griev'd
+    That all his means were gone:
+  But no way could relieve his wants;
+    Yet if that he would stay
+  Within her kitchen, he should have
+    What scullions gave away.
+
+  When he had heard, with bitter tears,
+    He made his answer then;
+  In what I did let me be made
+    Example to all men.
+  I will return again, quoth he,
+    Unto my Ragan's court;
+  She will not use me thus, I hope,
+    But in a kinder sort.
+
+  Where when he came, she gave command
+    To drive him thence away:
+  When he was well within her court
+    (She said) he would not stay.
+  Then back again to Gonorell
+    The woeful king did hie,
+  That in her kitchen he might have
+    What scullion boy set by.
+
+  But there of that he was deny'd,
+    Which she had promis'd late:
+  For once refusing, he should not
+    Come after to her gate.
+  Thus twixt his daughters, for relief
+    He wandred up and down;
+  Being glad to feed on beggars food,
+    That lately wore a crown.
+
+  And calling to remembrance then
+    His youngest daughters words,
+  That said the duty of a child
+    Was all that love affords:
+  But doubting to repair to her,
+    Whom he had banish'd so,
+  Grew frantick mad; for in his mind
+    He bore the wounds of woe:
+
+  Which made him rend his milk-white locks,
+    And tresses from his head,
+  And all with blood bestain his cheeks,
+    With age and honour spread.
+  To hills and woods and watry founts
+    He made his hourly moan,
+  Till hills and woods and sensless things,
+    Did seem to sigh and groan.
+
+  Even thus possest with discontents,
+    He passed o're to France,
+  In hopes from fair Cordelia there,
+    To find some gentler chance;
+  Most virtuous dame! which when she heard,
+    Of this her father's grief,
+  As duty bound, she quickly sent
+    Him comfort and relief:
+  And by a train of noble peers,
+    In brave and gallant sort,
+  She gave in charge he should be brought
+    To Aganippus' court;
+  Whose royal king, with noble mind
+    So freely gave consent,
+  To muster up his knights at arms,
+    To fame and courage bent.
+
+  And so to England came with speed,
+    To repossesse king Leir
+  And drive his daughters from their thrones
+    By his Cordelia dear.
+  Where she, true-hearted noble queen,
+    Was in the battel slain;
+  Yet he, good king, in his old days,
+    Possest his crown again.
+
+  But when he heard Cordelia's death,
+    Who died indeed for love
+  Of her dear father, in whose cause
+    She did this battle move;
+  He swooning fell upon her breast,
+    From whence he never parted:
+  But on her bosom left his life,
+    That was so truly hearted.
+
+  The lords and nobles when they saw
+    The end of these events,
+  The other sisters unto death
+    They doomed by consents;
+  And being dead, their crowns they left
+    Unto the next of kin:
+  Thus have you seen the fall of pride,
+    And disobedient sin.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+HYND HORN
+
+
+  "Hynde Horn's bound, love, and Hynde Horn's free;
+  Whare was ye born? or frae what cuntrie?"
+
+  "In gude greenwud whare I was born,
+  And all my friends left me forlorn.
+
+  "I gave my love a gay gowd wand,
+  That was to rule oure all Scotland.
+
+  "My love gave me a silver ring,
+  That was to rule abune aw thing.
+
+  "Whan that ring keeps new in hue,
+  Ye may ken that your love loves you.
+
+  "Whan that ring turns pale and wan,
+  Ye may ken that your love loves anither man."
+
+  He hoisted up his sails, and away sailed he
+  Till he cam to a foreign cuntree.
+
+  Whan he lookit to his ring, it was turnd pale and wan;
+  Says, I wish I war at hame again.
+
+  He hoisted up his sails, and hame sailed he
+  Until he cam till his ain cuntree.
+
+  The first ane that he met with,
+  It was with a puir auld beggar-man.
+
+  "What news? what news, my puir auld man?
+  What news hae ye got to tell to me?"
+
+  "Na news, na news," the puir man did say,
+  "But this is our queen's wedding-day."
+
+  "Ye'll lend me your begging-weed,
+  And I'll lend you my riding-steed."
+    "My begging-weed is na for thee,
+  Your riding-steed is na for me."
+
+  He has changed wi the puir auld beggar-man.
+
+  "What is the way that ye use to gae?
+  And what are the words that ye beg wi?"
+
+  "Whan ye come to yon high hill,
+  Ye'll draw your bent bow nigh until.
+
+  "Whan ye come to yon town-end,
+  Ye'll lat your bent bow low fall doun.
+
+  "Ye'll seek meat for St Peter, ask for St Paul,
+  And seek for the sake of your Hynde Horn all.
+
+  "But tak ye frae nane o them aw
+  Till ye get frae the bonnie bride hersel O."
+
+  Whan he cam to yon high hill,
+  He drew his bent bow nigh until.
+
+  And when he cam to yon toun-end,
+  He loot his bent bow low fall doun.
+
+  He sought for St Peter, he askd for St Paul,
+  And he sought for the sake of his Hynde Horn all.
+
+  But he took na frae ane o them aw
+  Till he got frae the bonnie bride hersel O.
+
+  The bride cam tripping doun the stair,
+  Wi the scales o red gowd on her hair.
+
+  Wi a glass o red wine in her hand,
+  To gie to the puir beggar-man.
+
+  Out he drank his glass o wine,
+  Into it he dropt the ring.
+
+  "Got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land,
+  Or got ye't aff a drownd man's hand?"
+
+  "I got na't by sea, I got na't by land,
+  Nor gat I it aff a drownd man's hand;
+
+  "But I got it at my wooing,
+  And I'll gie it to your wedding."
+
+  "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my head,
+  I'll follow you, and beg my bread.
+
+  "I'll tak the scales o gowd frae my hair,
+  I'll follow you for evermair."
+
+  She has tane the scales o gowd frae her head,
+  She's followed him, to beg her bread.
+
+  She has tane the scales o gowd frae her hair,
+  And she has followd him evermair.
+
+  Atween the kitchen and the ha,
+  There he loot his cloutie cloak fa.
+
+  The red gowd shined oure them aw,
+  And the bride frae the bridegroom was stown awa.
+
+
+
+
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+
+
+  Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,
+  Because he fought for Freedom and the stricken Negro slave;
+  Old John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,
+  But his soul is marching on.
+
+                           _Chorus_
+
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
+                       His soul is marching on.
+
+  He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true;
+  His little patriot band into a noble army grew;
+  He was a noble martyr, was Old John Brown the true,
+  And his soul is marching on.
+
+  'Twas not till John Brown lost his life, arose in all its might,
+  The army of the Union men that won the fearful fight;
+  But tho' the glad event, oh! it never met his sight,
+  Still his soul is marching on.
+
+  John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above,
+  Where live the happy spirits in their harmony and love,
+  John Brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above,
+  And his soul is marching on.
+
+
+
+ TIPPERARY
+
+
+  Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day,
+  As the streets are paved with gold, sure everyone was gay;
+  Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square,
+  Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:--
+
+_Chorus_
+
+  "It's a long way to Tipperary,
+  It's a long way to go;
+  It's a long way to Tipperary,
+  To the sweetest girl I know!
+  Good-bye Piccadilly,
+  Farewell, Leicester Square,
+  It's a long, long way to Tipperary,
+  But my heart's right there!"
+
+  Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O',
+  Saying, "Should you not receive it, write and let me know!
+  "If I make mistakes in 'spelling,' Molly dear,' said he,
+  "Remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me."
+
+  Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy O',
+  Saying, "Mike Maloney wants to marry me, and so
+  Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you'll be to blame,
+  For love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the same!"
+
+
+
+
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+
+
+  There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe,
+    And he was a squires son:
+  He loved the bayliffes daughter deare,
+    That lived in Islington.
+
+  Yet she was coye, and would not believe
+    That he did love her soe,
+  Noe nor at any time would she
+    Any countenance to him showe.
+
+  But when his friendes did understand
+    His fond and foolish minde,
+  They sent him up to faire London
+    An apprentice for to binde.
+
+  And when he had been seven long yeares,
+    And never his love could see:
+  Many a teare have I shed for her sake,
+    When she little thought of mee.
+
+  Then all the maids of Islington
+    Went forth to sport and playe,
+  All but the bayliffes daughter deare;
+    She secretly stole awaye.
+
+  She pulled off her gowne of greene,
+    And put on ragged attire,
+  And to faire London she would goe
+    Her true love to enquire.
+
+  And as she went along the high road,
+    The weather being hot and drye,
+  She sat her downe upon a green bank,
+    And her true love came riding bye.
+
+  She started up, with a colour soe redd,
+    Catching hold of his bridle-reine;
+  One penny, one penny, kind Sir, she sayd,
+    Will ease me of much paine.
+
+  Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart,
+    Praye tell me where you were borne:
+  At Islington, kind Sir, sayd shee,
+    Where I have had many a scorne.
+
+  I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee,
+    O tell me, whether you knowe
+  The bayliffes daughter of Islington:
+    She is dead, Sir, long agoe.
+
+  If she be dead, then take my horse,
+    My saddle and bridle also;
+  For I will into some far countrye,
+    Where noe man shall me knowe.
+
+  O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe,
+    She standeth by thy side;
+  She is here alive, she is not dead,
+    And readye to be thy bride.
+
+  O farewell griefe, and welcome joye,
+    Ten thousand times therefore;
+  For nowe I have founde mine owne true love,
+    Whom I thought I should never see more.
+
+
+
+
+THE THREE RAVENS
+
+
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+    Downe a downe, hay down, hay downe
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+    With a downe
+  There were three rauens sat on a tree,
+  They were as blacke as they might be
+    With a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe
+
+  The one of them said to his mate,
+  "Where shall we our breakefast take?"
+
+  "Downe in yonder greene field,
+  There lies a knight slain vnder his shield.
+
+  "His hounds they lie downe at his feete,
+  So well they can their master keepe.
+
+  "His haukes they flie so eagerly,
+  There's no fowle dare him come nie."
+
+  Downe there comes a fallow doe,
+  As great with yong as she might goe.
+
+  She lift up his bloudy hed,
+  And kist his wounds that were so red.
+
+  She got him up upon her backe,
+  And carried him to earthen lake.
+
+  She buried him before the prime,
+  She was dead herselfe ere even-song time.
+
+  God send every gentleman,
+  Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman.
+
+
+
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+
+
+  The pauky auld Carle come ovir the lee
+  Wi' mony good-eens and days to mee,
+  Saying, Good wife, for zour courtesie,
+    Will ze lodge a silly poor man?
+  The night was cauld, the carle was wat,
+  And down azont the ingle he sat;
+  My dochtors shoulders he gan to clap,
+    And cadgily ranted and sang.
+
+  O wow! quo he, were I as free,
+  As first when I saw this countrie,
+  How blyth and merry wad I bee!
+    And I wad nevir think lang.
+  He grew canty, and she grew fain;
+  But little did her auld minny ken
+  What thir slee twa togither were say'n,
+    When wooing they were sa thrang.
+
+  And O! quo he, ann ze were as black,
+  As evir the crown of your dadyes hat,
+  Tis I wad lay thee by my backe,
+    And awa wi' me thou sould gang.
+  And O! quoth she, ann I were as white,
+  As evir the snaw lay on the dike,
+  Ild dead me braw, and lady-like,
+    And awa with thee Ild gang.
+
+  Between them twa was made a plot;
+  They raise a wee before the cock,
+  And wyliely they shot the lock,
+    And fast to the bent are they gane.
+  Up the morn the auld wife raise,
+  And at her leisure put on her claiths,
+  Syne to the servants bed she gaes
+    To speir for the silly poor man.
+
+  She gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay,
+  The strae was cauld, he was away,
+  She clapt her hands, cryd, Dulefu' day!
+    For some of our geir will be gane.
+  Some ran to coffer, and some to kist,
+  But nought was stown that could be mist.
+  She dancid her lane, cryd, Praise be blest,
+    I have lodgd a leal poor man.
+
+  Since naithings awa, as we can learn,
+  The kirns to kirn, and milk to earn,
+  Gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn,
+    And bid her come quickly ben.
+  The servant gaed where the dochter lay,
+  The sheets was cauld, she was away,
+  And fast to her goodwife can say,
+    Shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man.
+
+  O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin,
+  And haste ze, find these traitors agen;
+  For shees be burnt, and hees be slein,
+    The wearyfou gaberlunzie-man.
+  Some rade upo horse, some ran a fit
+  The wife was wood, and out o' her wit;
+  She could na gang, nor yet could sit,
+    But ay did curse and did ban.
+
+  Mean time far hind out owre the lee,
+  For snug in a glen, where nane could see,
+  The twa, with kindlie sport and glee
+    Cut frae a new cheese a whang.
+  The priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith,
+  To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith.
+  Quo she, to leave thee, I will laith,
+    My winsome gaberlunzie-man.
+
+  O kend my minny I were wi' zou,
+  Illfardly wad she crook her mou,
+  Sic a poor man sheld nevir trow,
+    Aftir the gaberlunzie-mon.
+  My dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge;
+  And hae na learnt the beggars tonge,
+  To follow me frae toun to toun,
+    And carrie the gaberlunzie on.
+
+  Wi' kauk and keel, Ill win zour bread,
+  And spindles and whorles for them wha need,
+  Whilk is a gentil trade indeed
+    The gaberlunzie to carrie--o.
+  Ill bow my leg and crook my knee,
+  And draw a black clout owre my ee,
+  A criple or blind they will cau me:
+    While we sail sing and be merrie--o.
+
+
+
+
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+
+  There lived a wife at Usher's Well,
+    And a wealthy wife was she;
+  She had three stout and stalwart sons,
+    And sent them oer the sea.
+
+  They hadna been a week from her,
+    A week but barely ane,
+  Whan word came to the carline wife
+    That her three sons were gane.
+
+  They hadna been a week from her,
+    A week but barely three,
+  Whan word came to the carlin wife
+    That her sons she'd never see.
+
+  "I wish the wind may never cease,
+    Nor fashes in the flood,
+  Till my three sons come hame to me,
+    In earthly flesh and blood."
+
+  It fell about the Martinmass,
+    When nights are lang and mirk,
+  The carlin wife's three sons came hame,
+    And their hats were o the birk.
+
+  It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
+    Nor yet in ony sheugh;
+  But at the gates o Paradise,
+     That birk grew fair eneugh.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  "Blow up the fire, my maidens,
+    Bring water from the well;
+  For a' my house shall feast this night,
+    Since my three sons are well."
+
+  And she has made to them a bed,
+    She's made it large and wide,
+  And she's taen her mantle her about,
+    Sat down at the bed-side.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Up then crew the red, red cock,
+    And up and crew the gray;
+  The eldest to the youngest said,
+  'Tis time we were away.
+
+  The cock he hadna crawd but once,
+    And clappd his wings at a',
+  When the youngest to the eldest said,
+    Brother, we must awa.
+
+  "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
+    The channerin worm doth chide;
+  Gin we be mist out o our place,
+    A sair pain we maun bide.
+
+  "Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
+    Fareweel to barn and byre!
+  And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
+    That kindles my mother's fire!"
+
+
+
+
+THE LYE
+
+
+  Goe, soule, the bodies guest,
+    Upon a thanklesse arrant;
+  Feare not to touche the best,
+    The truth shall be thy warrant:
+      Goe, since I needs must dye,
+      And give the world the lye.
+
+  Goe tell the court, it glowes
+    And shines like rotten wood;
+  Goe tell the church it showes
+    What's good, and doth no good:
+      If church and court reply,
+      Then give them both the lye.
+
+  Tell potentates they live
+    Acting by others actions;
+  Not lov'd unlesse they give,
+    Not strong but by their factions;
+      If potentates reply,
+      Give potentates the lye.
+
+  Tell men of high condition,
+    That rule affairs of state,
+  Their purpose is ambition,
+    Their practise onely hate;
+      And if they once reply,
+      Then give them all the lye.
+
+  Tell them that brave it most,
+    They beg for more by spending,
+  Who in their greatest cost
+    Seek nothing but commending;
+      And if they make reply,
+      Spare not to give the lye.
+
+  Tell zeale, it lacks devotion;
+    Tell love, it is but lust;
+  Tell time, it is but motion;
+    Tell flesh, it is but dust;
+      And wish them not reply,
+      For thou must give the lye.
+
+  Tell age, it daily wasteth;
+    Tell honour, how it alters:
+  Tell beauty, how she blasteth;
+    Tell favour, how she falters;
+      And as they shall reply,
+      Give each of them the lye.
+
+  Tell wit, how much it wrangles
+    In tickle points of nicenesse;
+  Tell wisedome, she entangles
+    Herselfe in over-wisenesse;
+      And if they do reply,
+      Straight give them both the lye.
+
+  Tell physicke of her boldnesse;
+    Tell skill, it is pretension;
+  Tell charity of coldness;
+    Tell law, it is contention;
+      And as they yield reply,
+      So give them still the lye.
+
+  Tell fortune of her blindnesse;
+    Tell nature of decay;
+  Tell friendship of unkindnesse;
+    Tell justice of delay:
+      And if they dare reply,
+      Then give them all the lye.
+
+  Tell arts, they have no soundnesse,
+    But vary by esteeming;
+  Tell schooles, they want profoundnesse;
+    And stand too much on seeming:
+      If arts and schooles reply.
+      Give arts and schooles the lye.
+
+  Tell faith, it's fled the citie;
+    Tell how the countrey erreth;
+  Tell, manhood shakes off pitie;
+    Tell, vertue least preferreth:
+      And, if they doe reply,
+      Spare not to give the lye.
+
+  So, when thou hast, as I
+    Commanded thee, done blabbing,
+  Although to give the lye
+    Deserves no less than stabbing,
+      Yet stab at thee who will,
+      No stab the soule can kill.
+
+
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+
+I.
+
+
+  He did not wear his scarlet coat,
+    For blood and wine are red,
+  And blood and wine were on his hands
+    When they found him with the dead,
+  The poor dead woman whom he loved,
+    And murdered in her bed.
+
+  He walked amongst the Trial Men
+    In a suit of shabby grey;
+  A cricket cap was on his head,
+    And his step seemed light and gay;
+  But I never saw a man who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw a man who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    Which prisoners call the sky,
+  And at every drifting cloud that went
+    With sails of silver by.
+
+  I walked, with other souls in pain,
+    Within another ring,
+  And was wondering if the man had done
+    A great or little thing,
+  When a voice behind me whispered low,
+    _"That fellow's got to swing."_
+
+  Dear Christ! the very prison walls
+    Suddenly seemed to reel,
+  And the sky above my head became
+    Like a casque of scorching steel;
+  And, though I was a soul in pain,
+    My pain I could not feel.
+
+  I only knew what hunted thought
+    Quickened his step, and why
+  He looked upon the garish day
+    With such a wistful eye;
+  The man had killed the thing he loved,
+    And so he had to die.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
+    By each let this be heard,
+  Some do it with a bitter look,
+    Some with a flattering word.
+  The coward does it with a kiss,
+    The brave man with a sword!
+
+  Some kill their love when they are young,
+    And some when they are old;
+  Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
+    Some with the hands of Gold:
+  The kindest use a knife, because
+    The dead so soon grow cold.
+
+  Some love too little, some too long,
+    Some sell, and others buy;
+  Some do the deed with many tears,
+    And some without a sigh:
+  For each man kills the thing he loves,
+    Yet each man does not die.
+
+  He does not die a death of shame
+    On a day of dark disgrace,
+  Nor have a noose about his neck,
+    Nor a cloth upon his face,
+  Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
+    Into an empty space.
+
+  He does not sit with silent men
+    Who watch him night and day;
+  Who watch him when he tries to weep,
+    And when he tries to pray;
+  Who watch him lest himself should rob
+    The prison of its prey.
+
+  He does not wake at dawn to see
+    Dread figures throng his room,
+  The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
+    The Sheriff stern with gloom,
+  And the Governor all in shiny black,
+    With the yellow face of Doom.
+
+  He does not rise in piteous haste
+    To put on convict-clothes,
+  While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
+    Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
+  Fingering a watch whose little ticks
+    Are like horrible hammer-blows.
+
+  He does not feel that sickening thirst
+    That sands one's throat, before
+  The hangman with his gardener's gloves
+    Comes through the padded door,
+  And binds one with three leathern thongs,
+    That the throat may thirst no more.
+
+  He does not bend his head to hear
+    The Burial Office read,
+  Nor, while the anguish of his soul
+    Tells him he is not dead,
+  Cross his own coffin, as he moves
+    Into the hideous shed.
+
+  He does not stare upon the air
+    Through a little roof of glass:
+  He does not pray with lips of clay
+    For his agony to pass;
+  Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
+    The kiss of Caiaphas.
+
+
+II
+
+
+  Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard
+    In the suit of shabby grey:
+  His cricket cap was on his head,
+    And his step seemed light and gay,
+  But I never saw a man who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw a man who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    Which prisoners call the sky,
+  And at every wandering cloud that trailed
+    Its ravelled fleeces by.
+
+  He did not wring his hands, as do
+    Those witless men who dare
+  To try to rear the changeling
+    In the cave of black Despair:
+  He only looked upon the sun,
+    And drank the morning air.
+
+  He did not wring his hands nor weep,
+    Nor did he peek or pine,
+  But he drank the air as though it held
+    Some healthful anodyne;
+  With open mouth he drank the sun
+    As though it had been wine!
+
+  And I and all the souls in pain,
+    Who tramped the other ring,
+  Forgot if we ourselves had done
+    A great or little thing,
+  And watched with gaze of dull amaze
+    The man who had to swing.
+
+  For strange it was to see him pass
+    With a step so light and gay,
+  And strange it was to see him look
+    So wistfully at the day,
+  And strange it was to think that he
+    Had such a debt to pay.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
+    That in the spring-time shoot:
+  But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
+    With its adder-bitten root,
+  And, green or dry, a man must die
+    Before it bears its fruit!
+
+  The loftiest place is that seat of grace
+    For which all worldlings try:
+  But who would stand in hempen band
+    Upon a scaffold high,
+  And through a murderer's collar take
+    His last look at the sky?
+
+  It is sweet to dance to violins
+    When Love and Life are fair:
+  To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
+    Is delicate and rare:
+  But it is not sweet with nimble feet
+    To dance upon the air!
+
+  So with curious eyes and sick surmise
+    We watched him day by day,
+  And wondered if each one of us
+    Would end the self-same way,
+  For none can tell to what red Hell
+    His sightless soul may stray.
+
+  At last the dead man walked no more
+    Amongst the Trial Men,
+  And I knew that he was standing up
+    In the black dock's dreadful pen,
+  And that never would I see his face
+    For weal or woe again.
+
+  Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
+    We had crossed each other's way:
+  But we made no sign, we said no word,
+    We had no word to say;
+  For we did not meet in the holy night,
+    But in the shameful day.
+
+  A prison wall was round us both,
+    Two outcast men we were:
+  The world had thrust us from its heart,
+    And God from out His care:
+  And the iron gin that waits for Sin
+    Had caught us in its snare.
+
+
+III.
+
+
+  In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
+    And the dripping wall is high,
+  So it was there he took the air
+    Beneath the leaden sky,
+  And by each side a Warder walked,
+    For fear the man might die.
+
+  Or else he sat with those who watched
+    His anguish night and day;
+  Who watched him when he rose to weep,
+    And when he crouched to pray;
+  Who watched him lest himself should rob
+    Their scaffold of its prey.
+
+  The Governor was strong upon
+    The Regulations Act:
+  The Doctor said that Death was but
+    A scientific fact:
+  And twice a day the Chaplain called,
+    And left a little tract.
+
+  And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
+    And drank his quart of beer:
+  His soul was resolute, and held
+    No hiding-place for fear;
+  He often said that he was glad
+    The hangman's day was near.
+
+  But why he said so strange a thing
+    No warder dared to ask:
+  For he to whom a watcher's doom
+    Is given as his task,
+  Must set a lock upon his lips
+    And make his face a mask.
+
+  Or else he might be moved, and try
+    To comfort or console:
+  And what should Human Pity do
+    Pent up in Murderer's Hole?
+  What word of grace in such a place
+    Could help a brother's soul?
+
+  With slouch and swing around the ring
+    We trod the Fools' Parade!
+  We did not care: we knew we were
+    The Devil's Own Brigade:
+  And shaven head and feet of lead
+    Make a merry masquerade.
+
+  We tore the tarry rope to shreds
+    With blunt and bleeding nails;
+  We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
+    And cleaned the shining rails:
+  And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
+    And clattered with the pails.
+
+  We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
+    We turned the dusty drill:
+  We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
+    And sweated on the mill:
+  But in the heart of every man
+    Terror was lying still.
+
+  So still it lay that every day
+    Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:
+  And we forgot the bitter lot
+    That waits for fool and knave,
+  Till once, as we tramped in from work,
+    We passed an open grave.
+
+  With yawning mouth the yellow hole
+    Gaped for a living thing;
+  The very mud cried out for blood
+    To the thirsty asphalte ring:
+  And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
+    Some prisoner had to swing.
+
+  Right in we went, with soul intent
+    On Death and Dread and Doom:
+  The hangman, with his little bag,
+    Went shuffling through the gloom:
+  And I trembled as I groped my way
+    Into my numbered tomb.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  That night the empty corridors
+    Were full of forms of Fear,
+  And up and down the iron town
+    Stole feet we could not hear,
+  And through the bars that hide the stars
+    White faces seemed to peer.
+
+  He lay as one who lies and dreams
+    In a pleasant meadow-land,
+  The watchers watched him as he slept,
+    And could not understand
+  How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
+    With a hangman close at hand.
+
+  But there is no sleep when men must weep
+    Who never yet have wept:
+  So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave--
+    That endless vigil kept,
+  And through each brain on hands of pain
+    Another's terror crept.
+
+  Alas! it is a fearful thing
+    To feel another's guilt!
+  For, right, within, the Sword of Sin
+    Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
+  And as molten lead were the tears we shed
+    For the blood we had not spilt.
+
+  The warders with their shoes of felt
+    Crept by each padlocked door,
+  And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
+    Grey figures on the floor,
+  And wondered why men knelt to pray
+    Who never prayed before.
+
+  All through the night we knelt and prayed,
+    Mad mourners of a corse!
+  The troubled plumes of midnight shook
+    The plumes upon a hearse:
+  And bitter wine upon a sponge
+    Was the savour of Remorse.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,
+    But never came the day:
+  And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,
+    In the corners where we lay:
+  And each evil sprite that walks by night
+    Before us seemed to play.
+
+  They glided past, they glided fast,
+    Like travellers through a mist:
+  They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
+    Of delicate turn and twist,
+  And with formal pace and loathsome grace
+    The phantoms kept their tryst.
+
+  With mop and mow, we saw them go,
+    Slim shadows hand in hand:
+  About, about, in ghostly rout
+    They trod a saraband:
+  And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
+    Like the wind upon the sand!
+
+  With the pirouettes of marionettes,
+    They tripped on pointed tread:
+  But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
+    As their grisly masque they led,
+  And loud they sang, and long they sang,
+    For they sang to wake the dead.
+
+  _"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide,
+    But fettered limbs go lame!
+  And once, or twice, to throw the dice
+    Is a gentlemanly game,
+  But he does not win who plays with Sin
+    In the secret House of Shame."_
+
+  No things of air these antics were,
+    That frolicked with such glee:
+  To men whose lives were held in gyves,
+    And whose feet might not go free,
+  Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
+    Most terrible to see.
+
+  Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
+    Some wheeled in smirking pairs;
+  With the mincing step of a demirep
+    Some sidled up the stairs:
+  And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
+    Each helped us at our prayers.
+
+  The morning wind began to moan,
+    But still the night went on:
+  Through its giant loom the web of gloom
+    Crept till each thread was spun:
+  And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
+    Of the Justice of the Sun.
+
+  The moaning wind went wandering round
+    The weeping prison-wall:
+  Till like a wheel of turning steel
+    We felt the minutes crawl:
+  O moaning wind! what had we done
+    To have such a seneschal?
+
+  At last I saw the shadowed bars,
+    Like a lattice wrought in lead,
+  Move right across the whitewashed wall
+    That faced my three-plank bed,
+  And I knew that somewhere in the world
+    God's dreadful dawn was red.
+
+  At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
+    At seven all was still,
+  But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
+    The prison seemed to fill,
+  For the Lord of Death with icy breath
+    Had entered in to kill.
+
+  He did not pass in purple pomp,
+    Nor ride a moon-white steed.
+  Three yards of cord and a sliding board
+    Are all the gallows' need:
+  So with rope of shame the Herald came
+    To do the secret deed.
+
+  We were as men who through a fen
+    Of filthy darkness grope:
+  We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
+    Or to give our anguish scope:
+  Something was dead in each of us,
+    And what was dead was Hope.
+
+  For Man's grim Justice goes its way,
+    And will not swerve aside:
+  It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
+    It has a deadly stride:
+  With iron heel it slays the strong,
+    The monstrous parricide!
+
+  We waited for the stroke of eight:
+    Each tongue was thick with thirst:
+  For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
+    That makes a man accursed,
+  And Fate will use a running noose
+    For the best man and the worst.
+
+  We had no other thing to do,
+    Save to wait for the sign to come:
+  So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
+    Quiet we sat and dumb:
+  But each man's heart beat thick and quick,
+    Like a madman on a drum!
+
+  With sudden shock the prison-clock
+    Smote on the shivering air,
+  And from all the gaol rose up a wail
+    Of impotent despair,
+  Like the sound that frightened marches hear
+    From some leper in his lair.
+
+  And as one sees most fearful things
+    In the crystal of a dream,
+  We saw the greasy hempen rope
+    Hooked to the blackened beam,
+  And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
+    Strangled into a scream.
+
+  And all the woe that moved him so
+    That he gave that bitter cry,
+  And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
+    None knew so well as I:
+  For he who lives more lives than one
+    More deaths than one must die.
+
+
+IV
+
+
+  There is no chapel on the day
+    On which they hang a man:
+  The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
+    Or his face is far too wan,
+  Or there is that written in his eyes
+    Which none should look upon.
+
+  So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
+    And then they rang the bell,
+  And the warders with their jingling keys
+    Opened each listening cell,
+  And down the iron stair we tramped,
+    Each from his separate Hell.
+
+  Out into God's sweet air we went,
+    But not in wonted way,
+  For this man's face was white with fear,
+    And that man's face was grey,
+  And I never saw sad men who looked
+    So wistfully at the day.
+
+  I never saw sad men who looked
+    With such a wistful eye
+  Upon that little tent of blue
+    We prisoners called the sky,
+  And at every happy cloud that passed
+    In such strange freedom by.
+
+  But there were those amongst us all
+    Who walked with downcast head,
+  And knew that, had each got his due,
+    They should have died instead:
+  He had but killed a thing that lived,
+    Whilst they had killed the dead.
+
+  For he who sins a second time
+    Wakes a dead soul to pain,
+  And draws it from its spotted shroud,
+    And makes it bleed again,
+  And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,
+    And makes it bleed in vain!
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
+    With crooked arrows starred,
+  Silently we went round and round
+    The slippery asphalte yard;
+  Silently we went round and round,
+    And no man spoke a word.
+
+  Silently we went round and round,
+    And through each hollow mind
+  The Memory of dreadful things
+    Rushed like a dreadful wind,
+  And Horror stalked before each man,
+    And Terror crept behind.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The warders strutted up and down,
+    And watched their herd of brutes,
+  Their uniforms were spick and span,
+    And they wore their Sunday suits,
+  But we knew the work they had been at,
+    By the quicklime on their boots.
+
+  For where a grave had opened wide,
+    There was no grave at all:
+  Only a stretch of mud and sand
+    By the hideous prison-wall,
+  And a little heap of burning lime,
+    That the man should have his pall.
+
+  For he has a pall, this wretched man,
+    Such as few men can claim:
+  Deep down below a prison-yard,
+    Naked for greater shame,
+  He lies, with fetters on each foot,
+    Wrapt in a sheet of flame!
+
+  And all the while the burning lime
+    Eats flesh and bone away,
+  It eats the brittle bone by night,
+    And the soft flesh by day,
+  It eats the flesh and bone by turns,
+    But it eats the heart alway.
+
+       *       *       *       *
+
+  For three long years they will not sow
+    Or root or seedling there:
+  For three long years the unblessed spot
+    Will sterile be and bare,
+  And look upon the wondering sky
+    With unreproachful stare.
+
+  They think a murderer's heart would taint
+    Each simple seed they sow.
+  It is not true! God's kindly earth
+    Is kindlier than men know,
+  And the red rose would but blow more red,
+    The white rose whiter blow.
+
+  Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
+    Out of his heart a white!
+  For who can say by what strange way,
+    Christ brings His will to light,
+  Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
+    Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?
+
+  But neither milk-white rose nor red
+    May bloom in prison-air;
+  The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
+    Are what they give us there:
+  For flowers have been known to heal
+    A common man's despair.
+
+  So never will wine-red rose or white,
+    Petal by petal, fall
+  On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
+    By the hideous prison-wall,
+  To tell the men who tramp the yard
+    That God's Son died for all.
+
+  Yet though the hideous prison-wall
+    Still hems him round and round,
+  And a spirit may not walk by night
+    That is with fetters bound,
+  And a spirit may but weep that lies
+    In such unholy ground.
+
+  He is at peace-this wretched man--
+    At peace, or will be soon:
+  There is no thing to make him mad,
+    Nor does Terror walk at noon,
+  For the lampless Earth in which he lies
+    Has neither Sun nor Moon.
+
+  They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
+    They did not even toll
+  A requiem that might have brought
+    Rest to his startled soul,
+  But hurriedly they took him out,
+    And hid him in a hole.
+
+  The warders stripped him of his clothes,
+    And gave him to the flies:
+  They mocked the swollen purple throat,
+    And the stark and staring eyes:
+  And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
+    In which the convict lies.
+
+  The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
+    By his dishonoured grave:
+  Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
+    That Christ for sinners gave,
+  Because the man was one of those
+    Whom Christ came down to save.
+
+  Yet all is well; he has but passed
+    To Life's appointed bourne:
+  And alien tears will fill for him
+    Pity's long-broken urn,
+  For his mourners will be outcast men,
+    And outcasts always mourn.
+
+
+V
+
+
+  I know not whether Laws be right,
+    Or whether Laws be wrong;
+  All that we know who lie in gaol
+    Is that the wall is strong;
+  And that each day is like a year,
+    A year whose days are long.
+
+  But this I know, that every Law
+    That men have made for Man,
+  Since first Man took his brother's life,
+    And the sad world began,
+  But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
+    With a most evil fan.
+
+  This too I know--and wise it were
+    If each could know the same--
+  That every prison that men build
+    Is built with bricks of shame,
+  And bound with bars lest Christ should see
+    How men their brothers maim.
+
+  With bars they blur the gracious moon,
+    And blind the goodly sun:
+  And they do well to hide their Hell,
+    For in it things are done
+  That Son of God nor son of Man
+    Ever should look upon!
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  The vilest deeds like poison weeds,
+    Bloom well in prison-air;
+  It is only what is good in Man
+    That wastes and withers there:
+  Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
+    And the Warder is Despair.
+
+  For they starve the little frightened child
+    Till it weeps both night and day:
+  And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
+    And gibe the old and grey,
+  And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
+    And none a word may say.
+
+  Each narrow cell in which we dwell
+    Is a foul and dark latrine,
+  And the fetid breath of living Death
+    Chokes up each grated screen,
+  And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
+    In humanity's machine.
+
+  The brackish water that we drink
+   Creeps with a loathsome slime,
+  And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
+   Is full of chalk and lime,
+  And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
+   Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
+   Like asp with adder fight,
+  We have little care of prison fare,
+   For what chills and kills outright
+  Is that every stone one lifts by day
+   Becomes one's heart by night.
+
+  With midnight always in one's heart,
+   And twilight in one's cell,
+  We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
+   Each in his separate Hell,
+  And the silence is more awful far
+   Than the sound of a brazen bell.
+
+  And never a human voice comes near
+   To speak a gentle word:
+  And the eye that watches through the door
+   Is pitiless and hard:
+  And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
+   With soul and body marred.
+
+  And thus we rust Life's iron chain
+   Degraded and alone:
+  And some men curse and some men weep,
+    And some men make no moan:
+  But God's eternal Laws are kind
+    And break the heart of stone.
+
+  And every human heart that breaks,
+    In prison-cell or yard,
+  Is as that broken box that gave
+    Its treasure to the Lord,
+  And filled the unclean leper's house
+    With the scent of costliest nard.
+
+  Ah! happy they whose hearts can break
+    And peace of pardon win!
+  How else man may make straight his plan
+    And cleanse his soul from Sin?
+  How else but through a broken heart
+    May Lord Christ enter in?
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+  And he of the swollen purple throat,
+    And the stark and staring eyes,
+  Waits for the holy hands that took
+    The Thief to Paradise;
+  And a broken and a contrite heart
+    The Lord will not despise.
+
+  The man in red who reads the Law
+    Gave him three weeks of life,
+  Three little weeks in which to heal    His soul of his soul's strife,
+  And cleanse from every blot of blood
+    The hand that held the knife.
+
+  And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
+    The hand that held the steel:
+  For only blood can wipe out blood,
+    And only tears can heal:
+  And the crimson stain that was of Cain
+    Became Christ's snow-white seal.
+
+
+VI
+
+
+  In Reading gaol by Reading town
+    There is a pit of shame,
+  And in it lies a wretched man
+    Eaten by teeth of flame,
+  In a burning winding-sheet he lies,
+    And his grave has got no name.
+
+  And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
+    In silence let him lie:
+  No need to waste the foolish tear,
+    Or heave the windy sigh:
+  The man had killed the thing he loved,
+    And so he had to die.
+
+  And all men kill the thing they love,
+    By all let this be heard,
+  Some do it with a bitter look,
+    Some with a flattering word,
+  The coward does it with a kiss,
+    The brave man with a sword!
+
+
+
+
+APPENDIX
+
+_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume I._
+
+THE FROLICKSOME DUKE
+
+Printed from a black-letter copy in the Pepys Collection.
+
+
+KING ESTMERE
+
+This ballad is given from two versions, one in the Percy folio
+manuscript, and of considerable antiquity. The original version was
+probably written at the end of the fifteenth century.
+
+
+ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE
+
+One of the earliest known ballads about Robin Hood--from the Percy folio
+manuscript.
+
+
+KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID
+
+This ballad is printed from Richard Johnson's _Crown Garland of
+Goulden Roses,_ 1612.
+
+
+THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY
+
+This ballad is composed of innumerable small fragments of ancient
+ballads found throughout the plays of Shakespeare, which Thomas Percy
+formed into one.
+
+
+SIR ALDINGAR
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with some additional stanzas
+added by Thomas Percy to complete the story.
+
+
+EDOM O'GORDON
+
+A Scottish ballad--this version was printed at Glasgow in 1755 by Robert
+and Andrew Foulis. It has been enlarged with several stanzas, recovered
+from a fragment of the same ballad, from the Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF CHEVY CHACE
+
+From the Percy folio manuscript, amended by two or three others printed
+in black-letter. Written about the time of Elizabeth.
+
+
+SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE
+
+Given from a printed copy, corrected in part by an extract from the
+Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+THE CHILD OF ELLE
+
+Partly from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas
+by Percy as the original copy was defective and mutilated.
+
+
+KING EDWARD IV AND THE TANNER OF TAM WORTH
+
+The text in this ballad is selected from two copies in black-letter. One
+in the Bodleian Library, printed at London by John Danter in 1596. The
+other copy, without date, is from the Pepys Collection.
+
+
+SIR PATRICK SPENS
+
+Printed from two manuscript copies transmitted from Scotland. It is
+possible that this ballad is founded on historical fact.
+
+
+EDWARD, EDWARD
+
+An old Scottish ballad--from a manuscript copy transmitted from
+Scotland.
+
+
+KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS
+
+Version from an old copy in the _Golden Garland,_ black-letter,
+entitled _A lamentable Song of the Death of King Lear and his Three
+Daughters._
+
+
+THE GABERLUNZIE MAN
+
+This ballad is said to have been written by King James V of Scotland.
+
+
+
+_From "Percy's Reliques"--Volume II._
+
+
+THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER
+
+Printed from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections.
+
+
+KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
+
+This ballad was abridged and modernized in the time of James I from one
+much older, entitled _King John and the Bishop of Canterbury._ The
+version given here is from an ancient black-letter copy.
+
+
+BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY
+
+Given, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy, entitled
+_Barbara Alien's Cruelty, or the Young Man's Tragedy._
+
+
+FAIR ROSAMOND
+
+The version of this ballad given here is from four ancient copies in
+black-letter: two of them in the Pepys' Library. It is by Thomas Delone.
+First printed in 1612.
+
+
+THE BOY AND THE MANTLE
+
+This is a revised and modernized version of a very old ballad.
+
+
+THE HEIR OF LINNE
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas
+supplied by Thomas Percy.
+
+
+SIR ANDREW BARTON
+
+This ballad is from the Percy folio manuscript with additions and
+amendments from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection.
+It was written probably at the end of the sixteenth century.
+
+
+THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL GREEN
+
+Given from the Percy folio manuscript, with a few additions and
+alterations from two ancient printed copies.
+
+
+BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY
+
+Given from an old black-letter copy.
+
+
+THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE
+
+The version of an ancient black-letter copy, edited in part from the
+Percy folio manuscript.
+
+
+GIL MORRICE
+
+The version of this ballad given here was printed at Glasgow in 1755.
+Since this date sixteen additional verses have been discovered and added
+to the original ballad.
+
+
+CHILD WATERS
+
+From the Percy folio manuscript, with corrections.
+
+
+THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON
+
+From an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys' Collection.
+
+
+THE LYE
+
+By Sir Walter Raleigh. This poem is from a scarce miscellany entitled
+_Davison's Poems, or a poeticall Rapsodie divided into sixe books ...
+the 4th impression newly corrected and augmented and put into a forme
+more pleasing to the reader._ Lond. 1621.
+
+
+
+_From "English and Scottish Ballads."_
+
+
+MAY COLLIN
+
+From a manuscript at Abbotsford in the Sir Walter Scott Collection,
+_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy._
+
+
+THOMAS THE RHYMER
+
+_Scotch Ballads, Materials for Border Minstrelsy,_ No. 97,
+Abbotsford. From the Sir Walter Scott Collection. Communicated to Sir
+Walter by Mrs. Christiana Greenwood, London, May 27th, 1806.
+
+
+YOUNG BEICHAN
+
+Taken from the Jamieson-Brown manuscript, 1783.
+
+
+CLERK COLVILL
+
+From a transcript of No. 13 of William Tytler's Brown manuscript.
+
+
+THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
+
+From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland,_ 1828.
+
+
+HYND HORN
+
+From Motherwell's manuscript, 1825 and after.
+
+
+THE THREE RAVENS
+
+_Melismate. Musicall Phansies. Fitting the Court, Cittie and Country
+Humours._ London, 1611. (T. Ravenscroft.)
+
+
+THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
+
+Printed from _Ministrelsy of the Scottish Border_, 1802.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+MANDALAY
+
+By Rudyard Kipling.
+
+
+JOHN BROWN'S BODY
+
+
+IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY
+
+By Jack Judge and Harry Williams.
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL
+
+By Oscar Wilde.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Book of Old Ballads,
+Selected by Beverly Nichols
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOK OF OLD BALLADS ***
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